Lost and Found
by tigerlily25
Summary: Buffy and Team Slayer raid an African camp to rescue one of their own, and in the process find someone that once belonged to Team Gibbs. Post-Chosen, post-Aliyah Buffy/Ziva *friendship*.
1. Comfort in Consistency

_**A/N**__: Right. So this is the absolute last thing I should have been doing last night, given that I have an exam in four hours and another NCIS story on the go that's overdue for an update… but 'Buffy' was on Sci-Fi and I got bitten by the plot bunny halfway through the episode. I think it had rabies – that's the only explanation for this madness._

_**Spoilers:**__ Set 4 years post-Chosen in the BtVS universe, and a couple of weeks after Aliyah (6x25) in NCIS-world. Basically, everything in both shows up to this point is fair game._

_**Disclaimer**__: Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the genius invention of Joss Whedon and co. As for NCIS: if you see the Bellisario et al or the CBS execs, let them know I'm borrowing their characters and will return them only if they bring Ziva back whole (and with a damned good explanation for that 'traitor' tag)._

_**Summary: **__An unconventional team stumbles across something that NCIS has lost. And we all know how well Buffy deals with authority figures, and how Gibbs feels about loose ends… _

* * *

_**Prologue**_

_0600: Navy Yard, Washington DC_

The bullpen is bathed in early morning light, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle of sound (ringing phones and rustling paper and 'Put it on the plasma, McGee') and colour and agents racing to solve, to save, to decipher.

Alone in the squadroom, Tony has no audience to perform for, and he is simultaneously grateful for and unnerved by this. There is no-one wanting answers, and that's fine for now since all he has are endless questions – where and why and how and when, churning, _burning_ through his mind like the acid in his empty stomach.

Nineteen days, he thinks, as he hits print and the machine behind him whirs to life, cutting through the silence like a buzz-saw. Another case report done and ready for filing, and isn't the irony of having to complete all her reports as well as his own bittersweet?

_Ding!  
_

The elevator announces the intrusion of someone else into his privacy, and his mask slides firmly into place in the seconds between the alert and the slide of the doors. An agent whose name he can't remember (though he knows the heavyset, balding man is part of Reich's team) shuffles into the squadroom, flicking on the lights as he passes.

The room is bathed in humming artificial light and Tony shuts his eyes against the sudden unforgiving glare. Agent Unknown does not glance over at the lone MCRT agent, and Tony in turn does not spare the man a further look, only listens silently with his head down as the footsteps (shuffle shuffle shuffle) fade away.

'Alarm go off early this morning, DiNozzo?' a dry voice comes from directly in front of him, and he has to force himself not to jump. If Gibbs notices, he doesn't comment, just stows his gear like it's not unusual for his Senior Field Agent to be at his desk and working silently at 0600. The silence is almost too much too bear for both men, a stark reminder of how much things have changed in the past weeks.

'Morning, Boss,' Tony offers, a platitude that he doesn't expect returned. In the eight – almost nine – years he's been working with Gibbs, he's rarely known the man to bother with small talk.

This morning is no exception, and there's an odd comfort in consistency. Some things will never change.

'We get a case I don't know about?' Gibbs asks not unkindly.

'Just catching up on some paperwork. Neighbours started fighting again at 0430 and I'm betting they won't be complaining about the noise from _my_ apartment anytime soon. People in glass houses and all that.'

The half-lie dangles in the air, but Gibbs just raises an eyebrow and again, doesn't press it. Tony doesn't quite know what to do with this new silence that almost feels like pity, but it leaves a bad taste in his mouth and he wants to escape that steely gaze so he grabs his wallet and stretches as he stands. _Really need a more comfortable chair_, he thinks as he walks around his desk and pauses.

'Going to the coffee shop. You want anything? Whipped mocha frappucino with extra cream? Jelly donut?'

'It's not too early for me to slap you, DiNozzo,' Gibbs says with a touch of his usual biting tone, and they've fallen into their old roles without a second thought, and _oh the relief_, he thinks as he pushes the elevator button and steps in without looking back.

There's comfort in consistency, after all.

_

* * *

_

0600: ICWS US Headquarters, Cleveland, OH

Buffy tries to slip in the front door quietly, no mean feat considering her busted knee and the number of sleeping people with super-senses currently residing in the building. Pausing in the entrance and listening for a moment, she breathes a sigh of weary relief when she hears none of the telltale sounds of stirring Slayers.

She loves them all, really she does, but after the night she's had (3 fledglings, 5 older vamps, a Fyarl demon and another that she couldn't identify but had nasty spines and left no small amount of goo on her favourite patrolling pants), she's in no mood for the endless play-by-plays that the girls usually demand.

_You are their hero, Buffy, and being a leader demands a certain modicum of responsibility_, the Giles-in-her-head says, but she shrugs him off – he won't sense it from all the way over in England – and pads as silently as she can into the massive dining room.

_Good thing the old Council kept their cash in the bank and not at their headquarters, or we'd all be eating ramen over a camp stove_, she thinks to herself wryly as she digs through the refrigerator for something post-slay worthy (no shortage of complex carbohydrates in a house of up to 15 growing Slayers). Food first, first aid later.

Sitting at the custom made dining table with her loot (they couldn't find one large enough in the stores, and though Xander has other responsibilities these days, he still wields a mean hammer), she thinks not for the first time how much things have changed. She forces herself not to think of those that have been lost and like the California girl she once was – and still is; when the situation calls for it – she thinks only of the material things.

Four years after they watched their town become a 'big honkin' hole in the earth', as Xander put it, the ragtag group of wounded and exhausted Scoobies and Slayers has expanded into a staff of thousands, stationed at key points all around the world.

The International Coalition of Watchers and Slayers – named because they wanted a constant reminder not to repeat old mistakes – has express permission to conduct covert operations in the US, UK, Australia, and various European countries, and security clearance that would make the CIA, FBI and the rest of the 'three letter gang's' collective heads spin.

Which, when she thinks about it, is actually not as funny to watch as it sounds. Mostly it's just messy.

None of them have much faith in law enforcement and government agencies, which is not exactly a surprise given their history of being set up by corrupt secret government operatives and reading 'cause of death: neck rupture' in countless 'solved' case files.

Buffy knows for a fact that Giles has a number of very important stuffed-shirts on speed dial to get them out of whatever legal or other non-demon-related trouble they might find themselves in, though they've never had to test that theory.

They've built quite the lucrative little empire (Anya would be proud), she and Giles and… the others, though most of the profits go straight back into the important and long overdue things, like Slayer housing, training and support, both magical and regular – including a back payment for Buffy large enough that she will never have to work again if she so chooses.

All in all, it's not such a bad gig being a Slayer under the new regime, and the perks are pretty damn sweet, to quote Faith. The second-most senior Slayer is in England at the Slayer Academy (officially the Janna Calendar School for the Gifted), helping the combat training team design a new program for the next influx of girls to enter the school.

Faith calls it 'Rule One 101', and every time Buffy hears it she can't help but think of those who should be here with them to see what they've worked so hard to build.

If she's learnt anything from her decade as a Slayer, it's that Giles was right when he said that saving the world means making sacrifices. She just wishes that he'd been talking about her nails, and smiles, but there's no warmth in it.

As if signalled, her injuries begin to make themselves known as the last of her adrenaline drains away. She almost welcomes the pain as relief from the ache in her chest. There's a reason why she's earned the reputation she has.

(_She's like a robot_, she heard one of the new Slayers say to Caitlin, a Level 4 Slayer from Australia, and it had surprised her how much the remark stung after all this time.)

The now-familiar sound of Slayer wake-up routines filters down from upstairs, showering and squabbling and a metallic 'clang' that she's fairly sure is the sound of illicit early morning fun with weapons. Buffy figures she has about fifteen good minutes to patch herself up before the kitchen is filled with laughter and chatter and fighting over who is and isn't allowed to have caffeine in the morning.

One more week of house-mother duty to go, and then she's due to fly out to Rota, Spain with a small team to investigate a number of strange deaths in the area. Sangria and flamenco and dismemberment, she thinks oddly, and has to smile at the wiggy associations that are part of the turf as an ICWS agent. Deputy director, if you want to get all technical (though 'Agent' does her fine most of the time).

International travel has become somewhat standard for all of them.

The last time Buffy saw Xander, he was headed to the Horn of Africa with a team of Slayers and support personnel to investigate an influx of demon activity somewhere in the mountains of Eritrea. Buffy didn't ask how they found the potential training camp, but the Magical Division has come a long way from dangling crystals over maps, with Willow's guidance and the help of Giles's friends from the Devon coven.

Her thoughts are interrupted as she senses a now-familiar disruption in the air behind her, a humming of energy like a neon light bulb held an inch from your face, and her hair stands on end for more than one reason. This is the_ last_ thing she needs right now.

A redheaded figure shimmers into view seconds later, and looks Buffy up and down with something akin to concern, which is Buffy's first clue that in addition to feeling like she's been chewed up and spat out, she must look like it too. Concern isn't something she gets very often from Willow anymore, not since…

'Giles needs to see you,' Willow says without preamble, her gaze fixed somewhere just past Buffy's left shoulder. Buffy wonders why Willow came herself rather than sending another witch, or even better, a text message. Her old friend doesn't look like she's about to volunteer information anytime soon, so Buffy sighs and hauls herself up.

'What's the what?' It's so easy to fall back into old habits, though it feels like she's playing at being someone else. Someone long gone.

'I don't know.' At this, Willow looks down, and Buffy instantly suspects Willow knows more than she's saying. If it were anyone else, or another morning, she'd push the issue, but it's not and it isn't and she's too tired to fight this battle again.

She just nods shortly and scribbles a quick note to Magdelena (Level 7 Slayer and 2IC when there's no Senior in the house) before stepping close to Willow and closing her eyes against the whirling of the world.

* * *

_  
0735, NCIS Headquarters, Washington DC  
_

'McTardy!' Tony crows as the junior field agent steps from the elevator, juggling coffee and backpack and laptop and looking around furtively for Gibbs. 'Relax, he's up in Vance's office.' The name is said with a fair helping of derision – like Gibbs, Tony is suspicious of Vance's motives, even more so after their trip to Israel.

'He sure is up there a lot lately. Think they're getting friendly?' McGee wonders out loud.

'Oh, I'm sure they're real friendly. Braiding each other's hair, reminiscing about the good old days when Gibbs was a sniper and Vance was – whatever he was.'

And if it were a normal day, a third voice would interject about now with a biting comment said with a wicked smile, and they would gang up on McGee, and Tony would make a sarcastic remark or correct an English mistake… and McGee would have another item to put on his 'objects never to carry around Mossad assassins' list (paperclips are still number 1).

That's how the game is played, only they're one short: there's nobody to field the ball, and it bounces through the gaps.

Comfort in consistency doesn't quite work when you look too closely.

It's unlikely to be a coincidence that Vance has been spending more time than usual hovering around the squadroom, either looking down from the catwalk or finding excuses to observe their investigations. Tony gets the feeling that Vance is waiting for something – Gibbs to tell him to go to hell, most likely – but he's not entirely sure what.

'Waiting for something, DiNozzo?'

And god_damnit,_ that's the_ second_ time today and he thought he had almost mastered the Gibbs-sense. McGee is already headed for the elevator, gear in hand, and Tony grabs his backpack and what remains of his coffee and makes a run for it.

* * *

_Hopefully not too cryptic, and before people jump me about all the holes and nowhereness of this chapter, some things have been hinted at (did you catch the connection?) and others will be explained if not next chapter, then soonish. _

_Also…. there's this little thing called a 'hit counter' on both sites I post to, and funny enough, it tells me that a lot of people have been reading the scribbles I post, but only a few people actually review (and I love them for it)._

_It only takes a few minutes to let me know what you thought!_


	2. The Man in the Monster

_A/N: I'm bowled over by the response that Chapter 1 got, and a big thank you to all of the lovely people who read/reviewed it. _

_I promise it won't be so long between updates in future, had to finish exams first and I wanted to get more of the planning done for this (will probably be about 10-12 chapters unless things go wildly off course) before I started posting in earnest. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

_1135, ICWS Headquarters, London, England_

There's only one thing that Buffy hates more than the spinning feeling of being magically transported through space, and that's the feeling when your taxi driver overshoots the landing spot. _Bloody wonderful day for a swim,_ she thinks wryly as she opens her eyes underwater and struggles to her feet. Beside her, Willow does the same, though somewhat more gracefully given her lack of fresh battle wounds.

For a moment it's like old times as both women laugh and wring the water from their clothes, their eyes meeting for the first time in months without hesitation, and without the undercurrent of anger and pain that normally buzzes between them.

"Sorry, um… sorry! I was thinking about having a hot bath after we're done meeting Giles… I guess I thought a little too hard about the water. And obviously not enough about the hot. "

Willow looks sheepish, and touches Buffy's ruined clothes hesitantly; sending steam rising. It warms them both briefly as they climb from the fountain. They stand frozen in the foyer, close yet worlds apart, and both are lost for words.

The sudden and unexpected truce melts away as the steam settles, leaving them both cold and wanting. Buffy sighs – the Coalition counsellors would have a field day if they could pin either of them down long enough to force the black bitterness out of them – and pulls her jacket tighter around her as an excuse to avert her eyes.

Buffy feels the pain flare in her knee as they climb the stairs to where Giles is surely waiting with restrained impatience, and longs for the days when such injuries barely even stung.

The sentiment applies to more than just last night's wounds.

It is nearing lunchtime in London, and the hallways of ICWS are abuzz with the chatter of employees making plans for lunch, interspersed with other more serious topics. Slayer hearing is underrated as a gossip-gathering tool, Buffy thinks briefly as snippets float in the air around her.

"Jack recommended a cafe near St Margaret's, the Caesar dressing is to die for… hang about; I'm getting a call… "

"Would you say the slime was more greenish or yellow in colour, madam?"

"Boss, Ruby and I are going out for falafel before our meeting with the Mayor: Johnson wants a full update on the predicted vampire uprising in Kent and I'm not talking prophecy on an empty stomach…"

"Viscous like molasses, or thin like olive oil?" Buffy can't tell whether they're talking about the dressing or the slime, and that's a whole new level of "ick".

"Yo, B!" Unmistakeably Faith's voice, softened slightly by time and responsibility, but still throaty and rich like molasses (after what she's just heard, Buffy will have to come up with a better comparison because – _ewww_).

Faith looks her up and down from the corner of her eye as they walk toward Giles' office. "I'd say you looked good, but I'd be lying. What big and nasty did you and the girls piss off last night?"

"Just me and my undead friends... I decided to take a leaf out of your book and give the girls some time to unwind," Buffy answers, but really she means _they remind me too much of someone else young and giggly and gone, and I wanted to be un-reminded for awhile. _Whether Faith hears it in her voice or senses it from her too-stiff shoulders, Buffy isn't sure, but thankfully her sister Slayer doesn't press the issue when once she might have.

A lot can change in a few short years.

Just ahead, Willow disappears through the heavy double doors , and Faith quirks an eyebrow in the direction of the witch. "You and Red have a nice flight?"

Thankfully, Buffy is saved from having to answer that (where to begin?) by Giles' appearance in the doorway. The years have treated him well, and as Director of ICWS he is in his element, though it does mean that Buffy hardly sees him anymore. His obvious air of impatience gives way to restrained concern as he too stares and blinks.

"What?" she quips, "Do I have something on my face?" The bruises have already blossomed and begun to fade, and will be gone by morning. All the staring, however, is starting to grate. "Watcher-mine, why the early morning summons? Places to be, Slayers to train."

He is not her Watcher anymore – not officially – just as she is not the girl who once fled at the first sight of him, but the affectionate nickname has stuck regardless. It reminds them both of how far they have come.

"Buffy, Faith, do come inside – Xander is waiting to speak with you both." He says her name like a proud and chastising father, and as Buffy breezes past him (taking great care not to limp and fooling nobody) his hand rests briefly on her shoulder in a silent show of support.

All pretences of lightness and levity are gone as Buffy stops dead in front of the video screen, almost bowling Faith over as her knee gives just a little. She shifts her weight and feels Giles's eyes on her back.

"Buff… Faith… we have a major problem here." Xander says, and despite the poor quality of the picture and the frantic activity in the background, Buffy can hear the exhaustion shrouding his voice as clearly as if he were standing right next to her.

He closes his remaining eye for a minute before explaining, and next to her she feels Faith's muscles begin to vibrate with tightly coiled anger.

They were warned – thanks to a seer from the Magical Department – of a minor influx of inter-dimensional activity in the Horn of Africa. Xander was sent (along with two Slayers, a member of the Magic Department and Leanne Cummings, a senior Watcher) to the region to monitor and report back on the situation, but not to engage until they had more information on what was suspected to be a terrorist training camp. Inside which, naturally, someone was opening dimensional portals and bringing through things that were not exactly your garden variety of demons.

"Terrorists and demons working together, and quite likely with a butt-load of financial assistance from someone wealthy, powerful and pretty well-versed in 'Demons 101'. I'm gonna take a stab and say that whoever it is doesn't intend to use them to rescue kittens from trees." Xander turns for an instant and mutters something to someone unseen in the background, then continues with a sigh.

"Basically, we're in over our heads here, Buff. Gaeun got close enough two nights ago to see into what we think is their main assembly room, and she reports seeing at least twenty armed men – human and vamp – and a cornucopia of beasties, some of which aren't even in the database. And they're still coming through. So there's that problem."

They are all silent for a moment, waiting for the inevitable. Xander rubs a scarred hand over his face as someone starts sobbing softly in the background. When he speaks again, it isn't so much a voice as air forcing its way through tortured cords.

"And… Kelly was captured last night at 2330, caught too close to the perimeter by what we think was a Grachen, judging by the tracks and slice of tail she managed to remove before she was taken. Clementine" – the witch on the mission – "thinks she's somewhere inside the building, and still alive, but not for long."

Just like that, everything – aches and pains, regret and re-opened wounds and the bitterness of remembering how things used to be _before_ – vanishes beneath the weight of the here and now, and Wood was right when he said the mission was what mattered.

"Willow, 'port back to the Mayfair house and alert Magdelena's team, and tell them it's an S&D op – Caitlin will know what to bring for me. Giles – we'll need transport as soon as you can arrange it, and the M.D might need to be on standby to pull us out."

All those present in the room let her words – orders, really – rush over them like a tide, because they know by now that this is how she works these days, especially when a Slayer is in danger. The days of long speeches are gone, and there is nobody who misses them, least of all Buffy herself.

Sometimes she misses the ease of it all, the way they made the research and the planning… not fun, but at least lighter. Now there are too many tensions, too many agendas to fulfil and new problems to face.

"Should you be active on this one, with your knee busted like that?" Faith says quietly, and she's about the only one in the room who would dare ask the question, though she doesn't really expect an answer. She gets it.

Once, the reply would have been "Who else is there to do it?", but the rules have changed and she's not the 'one girl' any more. Buffy watched Kelly grow from a scared young girl into a powerful woman and if this is going to be as bad as her gut feeling tells her, she'll be damned if she's sending someone else to fight in her place. The knee will hold.

"Right. Well, as fun as it is to listen to teacher-types talk about the best way to demonstrate jujitsu techniques, this sounds more like my kind of party, and you didn't even invite me! I'm hurt, B."

"You always invite yourself anyway, _F_," Buffy shoots back, but she smiles as she says it.

Faith jumps neatly over Giles's desk ("Why walk when you can fly?" she said to him the first time, and he's learnt to ignore it now) and retrieves the first aid kit, tossing it to Buffy casually. "Might as well get cleaned up before the girls get back. You'll freak them all out before we even get out of the country."

"What's the point? We're just going to get all dirty again."

"Oh, I hope so baby," Wink. "Nobody messes with our own. Nasty demon-conjuring bastards won't know what hit 'em."

Faith smirks, and Buffy isn't fooled by the act for a second but lets it go. They all have their ways of gearing up for battle, and it's better than hiding in a corner and thinking about all the things that could go wrong.

* * *

_1900, Eritrea, Horn of Africa_

A world away, a heavy bolt slides back with a crash, and the door opens and lets in stale air and the scent of tobacco. Heavily booted feet approach carefully as she fights to keep her breathing steady, feigning sleep. Sometimes they leave her alone, sometimes they don't. She's somewhere past the point of caring.

The door slams and she's sure that for a minute she can hear sobbing, screaming, pleading. It comes in with the air that fights its way into the fetid little room, and after the last six days she's not sure anymore what is fantasy or reality.

"I can hear your heartbeat racing, little girl. No sense in pretending."

His hands are impossibly cool on her sweaty face, and his breath smells like soil and blood, but she bleeds so often now that all she smells is copper, so who's to know really? Marble hands smooth what remains of her dark curls from her neck, and fingers seek her pulse and lie flat, testing the reserves of her strength.

She wishes she had the strength to do something more than lie down and let this thing touch her, but all her energy goes into keeping her heart beating (though really, what's the point?) and she has none to spare.

Teeth sink into throat like a hot knife into butter, and she loses her battle to stay still, her breath faltering and catching as fire burns through her body, the agony of literally having the life force sucked right out of her.

Even the most thorough and expansive Mossad training could not prepare her for this, although she knows of his kind through legends and the warning stories told to little Israeli children about the monsters that lurk under your bed after dark.

Ziva has seen many monsters, but they always turned out to be merely humans committing monstrous acts. The way he touched her hair so gently, it was almost like the monster allowing himself a moment to be human. _Man-in-monster_ versus _monster-in-man,_ and her head spins with the comparison.

The monster groans, and rips the clothing from her body, and bites down with pointed teeth on tender flesh. The world fades into static and this time the screams she hears in her head are her own.

* * *

_In Chapter 3: Buffy gets a little more than she bargained for when they invade the camp, and we have a look at the latest from the squad room – including a very interesting ZNN news bulletin. (Sorry for the lack of NCIS in this chapter!)_

_Thanks for reading – I'd love to hear your thoughts. :)_


	3. Fade to Black

_**A/N:** A massive thankyou to those who've taken the time to comment so far. If anyone's interested, the 'Team Slay' names are all names of angels and have certain meanings._

_Just to clarify, italicized speech in quotation marks is either signing or thought-speech. Don't scoff yet. It might make sense later. _

_Also, the times given are according to the time zone of the characters. 0100 in Eritrea is roughly 1900 (the previous night) in Washington, so everything happens around the same 'time', really._

_**Disclaimer:** NCIS/BtVS are the property of their respective owners and no money is being made from this little universe-blending experiment._

_

* * *

_

_0100, Eritrea, Horn of Africa_

They wait and watch, creeping shadows in the inky black of the African night. So many stars, Buffy thinks to herself as she watches the guards circle like unsuspecting vultures around still-living prey. This is their role, what they do, who they are. Stupid of her to ever try and deny it.

They, the Slayers, are predators in disguise that lie unmoving on the grass and wait for the right moment to spring and dart and destroy the unwitting vulture-turned-mouse. A deceptively helpless girl crying in a dark alley, listening with half an ear as the monster approaches. Turn with fluid grace, wipe dry eyes and strike.

Caitlin and Faith steal through the darkness from opposite directions and three heads meet as hands twist and bend and gesture silently.

"_Six on the perimeter, two human and four not,_" Faith mouths in time with her signing hands, just so there's no confusion. "_Three vamps and one undetermined, moving at four minute intervals and packing some wicked semi-automatic heat. Witches ready with the jamming mojo?"_

Buffy nods and catches Caitlin's eye, smiling in reassurance. The Australian Slayer is outwardly calm, though her hands tremble as she adds her pieces to the puzzle. "_Southwest corner door is unguarded for only three minutes at a time between passes,"_ she signs in her typically cheeky manner, "_You good for a sprint or you need a piggyback?" _

"_Only if you want to lose a hand_," Buffy retorts, the ghost of a grin on her face at the other blonde's nerve. She touches a hand to her earpiece and it glows as she sends her message to Xander's team, who are waiting nearby for their signal. "_Xand, we found our opening... guess they just don't make terrorists as smart as they used to. We move in six minutes– you ready on your end?_"

"_Affirmative, Buff. Team Ramiel in place and standing by ready to raise some hell and give you a bigger opening. Team Nemamiah will be watching your back once you get inside."_

She should be used to hearing Xander's voice in her head after two years of using the magic-based comm. system, but it still makes her jump and she thinks briefly of Spike, hearing voices in his head in the stale air in a dark basement.

"_Everyone's talking to me…. Nobody's talking to each other…." _Clarity through the madness, but only in hindsight.

Every detail of every mission is planned these days, and they fall into their assigned roles and as if they've been doing it all along – orders and schematics and code names. As if a ragtag group of teenagers never patrolled cemeteries, cracking jokes to distract them from the fear of the monsters that they thought existed only in children's nightmares. There are, after all, hundreds of Slayers and Watchers and specialist agents associated with ICWS, and all kinds of accountability and procedural issues that thankfully Buffy doesn't have to deal with much. It makes her head spin, but she understands the necessity for rules and regulations and order, perhaps better than anyone believes she would.

They still find moments to laugh and joke despite the everyday horrors they see, and Buffy can't deny that maybe that's part of what keeps them all sane. There's even somewhat of a standard (if unofficial) list of Slayer-puns, though the younger Slayers would probably die if they knew _she_ knew about it.

She'll never admit it, but it makes her smile a little when she hears the Slayers-in-training threaten to pull out a vampire's ribcage and wear it as a hat.

Her earpiece crackles to life again, and beside her Faith stiffens._ "Gabriel_," Xander says quietly, "_Team Ninja just arrived. Apparently they were already in the area when they got Giles's call. You got something to keep 'em busy while we go in and get what we came for?"_

It had been a unanimous decision to involve Mossad in this operation. In addition to their tactical skills and knowledge of the terrain, they are one of only a handful of nations and agencies in the world to accept the existence of the supernatural and actually train their agents accordingly. Buffy and other ICWS agents have run hundreds of training sessions over the years for IDF soldiers and Mossad officers, covering topics from Acathla to the typical breeding grounds of Za'arnik demons.

Despite the good relationship between them, Buffy and the core management team still prefer to keep some things in-house (Rule number 11 – trust nobody, especially nobodies with badges and government paycheques), and she curses at the news.

"_Have some of them join Team Ramiel – they could use the firepower – and the rest on clean-up crew status only at this stage_," she thinks, eyes fixed on the largest vampire, who has begun yet another circle around the building. "_We'll put out the bat signal if we need them before then." _

It draws a laugh from the team, because while the Israelis are second to none in combat, their handle on idioms is not of the good and there's an excellent chance they'll be looking out for a flying bat. Buffy is sure that Xander will find a military way of explaining it.

Team Gabriel – nicknamed Team Hot Chicks by Faith (much to Caitlin's amusement even if she doesn't quite understand the reference) – have clear orders. Get in by any means necessary, find Kelly, and get out. The Magic Department suggested a direct drop into the area in which Kelly is being held, but there was too much interference from the energies created by the open portal within the building so, as Magdalena said, it's "out with the woo-woo and back to good old Slayer stealth."

Caitlin nudges her and gestures to their entry point, where two vampire guards have just crossed paths and stopped for a moment to talk. "_Good to go, Ramiel_," Buffy transmits, and hears the familiar pop-pop-pop-chrrrr sound of gunfire from far away. The guards snap to attention and one disappears around the side of the building, rounding the corner just as the other bursts into a shower of dust. From Buffy's left, Faith snorts and lowers her still-vibrating crossbow, eyes a little wild with anticipation.

"Time to fly, B. Sure you don't want that piggyback?"

* * *

_1930, Navy Yard, Washington DC_

The bullpen is filled with the familiar sounds of the MCRT winding down after the successful closing of another case. Lieutenant John Samuels had been in custody since early that morning when he stormed a civilian auto workshop and shot at Brad Shevin, the head mechanic. The wounded mechanic, as it turned out, had been responsible for the sabotage of Samuels's SUV – the aim being to stop him from reaching an important meeting during which a vote was to be cast, the subject of which was apparently beyond even Vance's clearance level. Unfortunately, Samuels had chosen to carpool with a co-worker so that his wife could take their nine year old son to his football game.

He had cast his vote at the same time that his wife and son lay dying in the wreckage of the vehicle, and whatever the ballot was for, it was not worth the sacrifice of his family. Shevin had been turned over to the local LEO's for processing and arraignment awaiting the trial.

Meanwhile, a good and honest man whose world had exploded without warning is sitting somewhere in a holding cell awaiting his own trial and potential jail sentence for attempted murder or at the very least, aggravated assault. Samuels had the look of a man who is dead inside already, and Tony had found himself unable to meet the remote, lifeless gaze even through the mirrored glass of the observation room.

It reminds him too much of another set of chocolate eyes that he sees staring coldly through him in his nightmares.

The whole situation has left Tony with a thoroughly sour taste in his mouth, and judging from the atmosphere in the bullpen, Gibbs and McGee felt much the same way. Tony knows enough about how Gibbs lost his family to recognise the air of bitter frustrated sadness that had hung about his solid frame since they'd arrived at the scene of the accident and seen the twisted and charred metal cage of the SUV.

The familiar jingle of chains announces Abby's arrival in the squad room, a rarity these days as the forensic scientist has been suspiciously avoiding interacting with the team.

Despite all of the evidence to the contrary, she has unwavering faith in Ziva's innocence, and was furious at Gibbs (and by extension, Tony) for 'leaving her behind'. _It must be nice_, Tony thinks as he watches her bounce toward them, _to live in Abby's world;_ though she is slow to trust, once you earn it it's yours for life.

Leaving, being left. They are different things that end up at the same place.

He's starting to think their ex-Mossad liaison has vanished into thin air. Cell disconnected, emails unanswered, and though part of him can understand why she might not want to talk to him or Gibbs, Abby and McGee are a different story.

Ziva is many things, but she is not spiteful, and it makes his gut clench to think of the kind of life she's hinted that she led before them and here and _him_. He's thankful for the Abby-shaped distraction as she slaps sheets of paper on the desk before him.

"Eritrea," she says without preamble, waving her hands about in the way that she does when there are too many words to speak at once. "Mossad sent a team of operatives to somewhere near Asmara two days ago on an active assault mission, and her name was on the list of personnel."

It almost seems too easy, though like everything Abby (and McGee) does, there's a long-winded explanation for every concise piece of the information gathered from evidence. Tony's learnt the hard way not to ask how.

"Been doing some backdoor exploring in our alleged allies' networks, Abby?" he asks instead, glancing over at McGee who suddenly looks guilty and oh, now McGee's frequent absences from the bullpen make more sense. He'd half thought Vance had sent the junior agent undercover.

Gibbs glances up from his paperwork, frowning in their direction, and Abby seems to feel his eyes on her. Black lips press together tightly before she says, "Well, someone had to, since nobody else seems concerned with where Ziva is or if she's dead or alive!"

And at that, Gibbs speaks for the first time in an hour, and it seems mild enough but they all know better. "Something on your mind, Abs?"

McGee draws in a breath, because he can guess what's coming and is just glad most of the other agents have gone home for the night. They're already the subject of enough scuttlebutt as it is, between his books and Gibbs's hogging the elevator, and the (temporarily suspended) poll on when DiNozzo and David are going to either have at it or have it out in the elevator.

"Well now that you mention it, yes! Do you know it's been twenty-one days, Gibbs, and not a single email, or phone call to say 'Hey Abs, sorry I missed the flight, thinking of you'… not that Ziva would ever say something like that, but whatever… twenty-one days of silence. At least last time, she emailed occasionally!" And Tony's head snaps up at that, because he didn't know that, but he doesn't interrupt. "I was worried, and nobody was listening or _doing_ anything, so I decided to do something myself."

"Mossad found their training camp, then? Last I heard, Ziva was on assignment somewhere in Eastern Europe." Gibbs says, and time freezes. Like children, they are indignant and proud and sure of their opinion until the father says something that reminds them that he sees all, knows all, and…

"Rule 8, Abby: Never take anything for granted. Didn't shout it from the rooftops, and I don't know how to work the computer doo-dad you gave me, but that doesn't mean I didn't make some calls of my own."

Red blood stains white skin like wine on carpet as Abby blushes hotly, unable to look Gibbs in the eye. The silence pulses, and in the confused and wondering haze Tony catches a fiery flicker from the corner of his eye.

He turns and gapes for a second, fumbles for the remote and turns up the sound with shaking nerveless fingers.

Heads snap to the screen in the middle of the bullpen and McGee draws a breath and presses a button on his keyboard; and then all around them on the plasma screens is scrolling text and fire so furious Tony imagines the backs of his hands blistering in the heat.

"A fire that started in Bambuco, Eritrea, in the early hours of the morning has destroyed an abandoned mine. There have been reports of increased activity around the site in recent weeks, and ZNN can confirm that there appear to have been people inside at the time of the fire." As one, they suck in shaking and ragged breaths and cannot look away.

"Investigators have discovered a cache of explosives hidden in an outbuilding, though the possibility of terrorism has been neither confirmed nor denied. Stay tuned for further updates as we learn more."

The words hang in the thickening air, hover and pulse and leave them speechless. McGee types 'Bambuco' into a search engine and they stare at the dot on the map that's far too close to Asmara to be coincidence.

They spring into motion, searching and typing and phoning in whatever favours they have left, as the sun continues to throw fading shadows across the bullpen and dread flickers and flares in a conflicted heart.

* * *

_0113, Bambuco, Eritrea_

It only takes eight minutes for all of their careful plans to go straight to hell, and Buffy thinks between ducking and punching that it's lucky she had all those years of experience flying by the seat of her stylish yet affordable pants.

They entered seemingly undetected, and followed the memorised route toward what they assume are holding cells, stopping twice to hide from approaching footsteps.

The Magic Department has provided them with a temporary cloak, which doesn't leave them invisible but simply makes them blend into their surroundings so unwanted eyes just skip over them. Effie had warned Buffy that some demons can see through such spells, and as fun as it is to play 'guess which one?', Buffy's in the mood to play it safe today.

They near the main assembly room and the first sign that things aren't going to plan comes when Buffy feels her hair stand on end from the humming buzzing energy that usually means someone's opened one mother of a portal.

Caitlin swears under her breath from behind her and that's when Buffy knows they have a major problem on their hands, because there's nothing but static in their earpieces. In front of her, Faith's outline flickers, and suddenly Faith ceases to be 'blend-y' and becomes sore-thumb-obvious in the empty corridor.

Thankfully, someone must be paying attention, because the lights flicker and die and _oh thank god_ for Slayer vision, because they're almost to the door they need. Buffy checks her watch (eleven minutes until deadline) and listens intently at the door, finally easing it open and slipping through with Caitlin as Faith keeps watch in the corridor.

The corridor is not long, but the small space is filled with the stench of copper and desperation. Someone or something is screaming, and Buffy flinches at the distinctive sounds of boots pounding flesh. Caitlin signals and points to a heavy door on their left, and she nods and watches as the younger Slayer peers through the grimy glass carefully, then shakes her head.

_Empty_.

They've no sooner moved past the door then footsteps approach from around the corner and they duck back flat alongside the wall (not only Slayers have night vision).

_Vampire_, Buffy thinks, and touches Caitlin's arm in an 'I've got it' gesture, stepping out as the vamp turns the corner without bothering to look behind him, his arm coming up to wipe away a ring of fresh blood around his mouth. _Sloppy __**and**__ disgusting_.

He's dust before his hand reaches his mouth, but before Buffy gets the chance to brush the dust from her clothes her senses start screaming and no less than five figures surround them, advancing with fists and guns and knives ready.

It's a blur of motion and frantic, dancing movement and strike defend attack retreat – look out for the knife – and there's four left, then three but they're making far too much noise and she can only _imagine_ what Faith is thinking outside. Buffy takes a gun from the ugliest human she's ever seen and sinks a fist into his face before bending the metal into a pretzel shape and throwing it down on top of his unconscious body.

Buffy's knee is throbbing and her head is spinning wildly thanks to a deadly right hook that caught her on the jaw, but they're in too deep to quit now. Caitlin has a nasty cut above her eye that's dripping blood and might need stitches when they get out. She presses on it to slow the blood as they check the other rooms for Kelly. The further they get from the main hall, the less static in their earpieces, and finally Xander's panicked voice breaks through. "_Team Gabriel, report! You all okay? What the hell is happening in there?"_

"_Caught some interference in the southwest corridor, Xand. Thanks for killing the lights."_ Open, scout, slam, limp. Open, scout… Six more rooms. "_No sign of Kelly yet, and I think we're gonna need the M.D to pull us outta here when we get our girl. It's lousy with demons out there. "_

They open the next set of doors in tandem, and Caitlin cries out and rushes into her room. Buffy just stands rooted to the spot and stares in horror.

Inside, a shorn and pitiful figure lies curled and broken on the hard floor, bruised and burnt and shivering in fear. The room is coated with grime and blood and even from her position in the doorway Buffy can make out the twin puncture wounds that mar her bare neck. She approaches cautiously, limping on the uneven floor, bending down amid a sea of dark dead curls and checking for a pulse.

From somewhere down the corridor, a door slams and Faith charges down the corridor, yelling through her earpiece for extraction "_now, Xander, army of fucking demons hot on my tail, work the mojo and get us out," _and in Buffy's head she hears "_Copy that Gabriel, extraction in five…. four…_."

She says a silent apology to the girl on the floor, because this is going to hurt like hell but there's no delicate way to do it, then gently picks her up and staggers for the door as Faith watches with wide and curious eyes. The girl struggles weakly and screams, then dissolves into sobs that break around words like waves on the shore.

"_No no please stop no oh god Tony; Tony…."_

Demons burst through the door and swarm her, one clubbing her with the butt of a semiautomatic and sending stars exploding through her vision. Xander reaches "One", and the world shimmers and whirls beneath their feet as they disappear to safety with their precious cargo.

Behind them, there's a muffled 'boom' as the building explodes and crumbles, fire reaching malevolent fingers into the night sky, but they are safe and they have Kelly and for once somebody else can clean up the mess. More important things to worry about, like how to tell Giles that they might have an anonymous house-guest for awhile…

Through the fog Buffy realises they've arrived in the grounds of the school, and no sooner does the thought form than someone lifts Buffy's sobbing cargo from her arms without question. She staggers under the sudden absence of grounding weight and Faith is quick to catch her sister Slayer as her world fades to black.

* * *

_**A/N:** Before you feel the need to ask why Ziva's name was on the personnel list for a mission she obviously never made it to, remember that everything is not what it seems. _

_Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your feedback. :)_


	4. Questions and Questions

_**A/N:** It's good to be home, though in an ideal world 'home' would not be like, 10 degrees Celsius and rainy. Quite a shock to the system after baking heat, humidity and sunshine. Grr, argh. _

_Most of this chapter (and the next) were typed using my iPod Touch, while stuck in a Phuket hotel room waiting out the monsoonal rain. iPod grammar etc (also spelling and the act of typing itself) leave something to be desired. Apologies for any mistakes._

* * *

_JC Academy, England_

Ziva drifts up from the dreamy darkness weight of unconsciousness lifts like a lazily fluttering veil in a breeze that is growing stronger with each traitorous gust of wind. She fights; fails; falls.

"...Buf... three days... no response... Cait... debriefing... patrol... unwad your panties Gi... give her time.."

Words ebb and flow through the constant ringing in her ears, and she feels her palms begin to sweat underneath the soft cotton sheets.

It takes all of her training not to reveal herself - the pain has considerably dulled, but it is not gone. A cotton cover over the blade of a knife does not entirely protect a delicate finger from injury, and at times Ziva feels like she's been flayed down to exposed bone in more ways than one.

They come and go, checking in on her, sometimes whispering too softly for her to make out the words, so she listens instead for the words behind the words. She who is so good at reading people and so impossible to read herself. It always frustrated Tony, her ability to know when he was lying.

There are three that come regularly, two female and one male, so she focusses on them.

Female. Young. Soft and gentle voice, an accent that she can't quite place. Innocence and an almost childlike curiousity that reminds her of black pigtails and gunpowder. Sunshine on a cloudy day.

Male. He comes less often than the others, and never alone. He brings the scent of faded ink into the room, and when he speaks she thinks of cold steel, clinking china, and tales of a time gone by.

Female, distinctly American, though at times it seems she is speaking an alien language of her own creation. Her presence fills the room and makes it hum, though there's a hidden weariness under the surface. Bourbon and sawdust and sleepless nights...

...she's easily distracted these days; thoughts slide into her head and out again like bubbles popping in champagne. They fizz on her tongue and vanish and it is infinitely frustrating, the feeling of spinning out of control...

...focus, Ziva, focus despite the fizz and pop, despite the growing desire to lose yourself in foolish memory...

_'Assess the situation, gather intel, act_,' a voice tells her in the recesses of her scattered mind, but it sounds too much like her father, and she's done taking orders from him. What would Gibbs do, she thinks, and then she remembers.

"_ Take care of yourself," he says softly, and his kiss burns her skin as his words echo in her ears. Words, and then footsteps, and she watches as the ramp of the plane begins to close on another chapter of her short and complicated life. Had she known what lay in wait for her, she would have hung by the bottom of the plane by her fingertips like she'd once seen in one of Tony's movies._

Hindsight is a real... witch, Ziva thinks, as somewhere to her left a door opens almost soundlessly. She feels rather than hears someone slip inside, and is bothered by the reminder of someone -no, something - that slid silently across stone to sink yellow teeth into golden neck. Fear rushes through her veins like an icy flood, and despite herself, she draws a loud and shuddering breath.

Silence falls in the small room, swollen and heavy like eyelids after tears. The jig is out. Her instincts flare, they scream fight or flee, but Ziva is in no condition to do either.

Sudden and swift presence by the bed - almost too fast to be believed - and the uncomfortable pricking feeling of being watched closely.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty," a voice says softly, no hint of threat in the words. "If I have to make Giles kiss you, he's not gonna be happy."

Ziva half-smiles at the reference before she can catch herself. Such wry humor in the familiar American voice.

"I saw that. You're safe here, y'know. Think of me as your own personal Fido."

Ziva's eyes blink open at the unknown reference and stars explode in her vision. There's the distinctive sound of a hand hitting a forehead and the lights dim suddenly.

A muttered, "Whoops. Stupid Buffy, trying to blind the guest." Louder," Big dramatic wake-up scene, take two."

Ziva opens her eyes cautiously and fights to focus her blurred vision. The American - _Buffy_ (what **were** her parents thinking?) - raises a curious eyebrow, but her hazel eyes are kind and knowing. A flicker of sadness lingers in hidden depths.

"It gets easier after the first time. Not so... overwhelmy. At least you don't have to get your hands dirty."

Ziva doesn't quite know what to make of that, so she scans the room, her eyes taking in each little detail. Small and creamy coloured in the dim light, a door on her left. The whole room is maybe twelve meters square (the conversion escapes her). It is obviously a hospital of some kind, though lacking the beeping whirring machines and antiseptic smell that she hates. Two overstuffed blue armchairs begging for someone to sink into them and a low table, upon which someone has placed a vase of brightly coloured flowers.

"Caitlin brought those. She thought the choice of decor was 'as boring as a butter sandwich'. Go figure."

Ziva startles, realizing that Buffy's watchful eyes are following her skittish gaze. Something thrusts itself forward in her mind, a sudden horrifying thought. _Caitlin..._

"Am I..." Her voice is unfamiliar, rusty and raw from lack of use, and the sound of it makes her hesitate. Buffy watches her carefully but doesn't interrupt.

"Am I dead?"

* * *

_NCIS, Washington DC_

Life barrels on like a runaway train, the passengers oblivious to their loss.

The team sit silently, frozen and disbelieving as the buzz and hum of the squad room continues around them. Logic and facts, records and footage and chasing down leads. They have the best solve rate of any NCIS team, anywhere in the world, and not without a reason. It's what they do, who they are.

Right now, Agent Timothy McGee wishes he was somewhere else - anywhere else but here where the air is heavy with grief and guilt.

Three minutes in MTAC, and it's like the past four years never happened. They've just come back from that rooftop in downtown DC, and somewhere below them the body that used to be Kate is chilling inside a steel drawer. Rain falls steadily outside, much like it did then, and when McGee dares to look at Tony he thinks of dried blood and brain matter spattered over his teammate's face.

Curled at his feet, Abby shifts and swipes angrily at her eyes, and he touches her wild hair with a gentle hand.

"Now is not the time for silly pigtails, Tim," she'd said when he asked. "I don't care what Kate said. Kate is_ not_ Ziva." She'd taken the scissors and cut her hairbands into little pieces as he watched numbly for a moment, before slipping the scissors from trembling fingers and gathering her in his arms.

In the present, Tony's face is clean, and Ziva is dead. Not just dead;_ obliterated_. Stripped of all the things that made her impossible and intimidating and endearing all at the same time.

Opposite him, Gibbs stares blankly at his monitor, paper strewn all over his desk. News reports and files and anything they could think of to prove themselves wrong. Hurricane Gibbs has hit cold water and run out of huff and puff, and unlike the aftermath of Kate's shooting, there is nobody to hunt, nobody to focus their anger and grief on.

He doubts even Gibbs could talk his way out of having shot the Director of Mossad.

"Agent Gibbs." Vance. It's not said unkindly, but they all tense anyway. Abby digs her nails into Tim's leg and he winces.

"You got a question, Director, or did you just come down here to stare?"

It's not Gibbs who speaks. Tony glares as Vance narrows his eyes, possibly weighing whether or not one of them will shoot him if he pushes right now. Judging by the increased pinch of Abby's fingers, McGee wouldn't rule her out.

"Considering what you just heard, I'll let that one slide, DiNozzo. I wouldn't recommend pushing your luck a second time." Tony doesn't look away. McGee holds his breath.

"You want something, Leon?" Gibbs says unusually mildly. Gibbs as peacekeeper? There's a new one.

"Go home. All of you. Nothing more you can do here."

"Whose fault is that?" Abby mutters brokenly under her breath. If he hears, Vance doesn't show it.

"Plane to Tel Aviv leaves tomorrow at 0900. Go home, or I'll have someone escort you all out."

Vance turns and walks away, and in his wake they look to Gibbs much as they always do.

"Boss, we could-"

"I have a contact at the State Department who might be able to-"

"We're not going to just-"

"Yeah, Abs. We are." They freeze and stare at the person they thought would be the first to disobey, to fight. Surely there must be something they're missing, Tim thinks, because Ziva is too good to just let-

"You heard the Director. Go home." His tone brooks no argument, and McGee and Abby rise and gather their things.

Tony, however, has never been good at following orders. His desk drawer slams and when McGee glances over his face is red and creased under  
the weight of his inability to make this better with a witty turn of phrase. McGee hasn't seen him this angry since...

"Picked a hell of a time to start following orders, Gibbs. One word from Fuhrer Vance and you just roll over and play-"

Time shudders to a halt as Tony's face drains and Abby makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Tim suddenly wishes he'd taken his father's advice and gone into a nice safe line of work. Envelope stuffing. Pet store owner. Online personal shopper.

Gibbs is going to... get up from his desk and put his hands on DiNozzo's shoulders?

Huh.

"DiNozzo. There's nothing more we can do here. You saw the copy of the autopsy report."

They all had. Blood type, DNA analysis. Dental records. All a perfect match. Abby hadn't been back to her lab since, saying the science she loved had betrayed her. For a disbelieving second, McGee thinks Gibbs might actually hug Tony. His gravelly voice is leaden with understanding.

"You can't help her now, Tony. And believe me, all the wishing in the world won't change what's been done. All you can do is-"

"Hide in my basement?" Biting and broken and aimed to wound, but Gibbs has armour-plated skin and is the expert on the futile nature of wishes.

"If it helps," Gibbs says with a shrug, moving around Tony and picking up the frozen agent's backpack. "Let's go."

They follow him to the elevator like lost sheep. The doors open and Ducky stares out at them, hat in hand and eyes shadowed.

Abby nudges him none too subtly and unwillingly, Tim opens his mouth. "Boss? Uh... Where are we going?"

"Any of you **got** a basement?"

* * *

_JC Academy, England_

"Good Lord." Giles mutters, blinking in surprise. "She asked what?"

Buffy sighs and folds herself into the wingback chair in front of the fire, stretching out her aching neck muscles.

"She asked if she was dead, I said 'no' and started to explain, but she kinda... faded out. Or faked it. I get the feeling she's been aware longer than we thought."

Questions and questions, and a pang of something way too familiar in the disoriented chocolate eyes. Granted, waking up in a strange place after being beaten half to death can't be too much fun, but Buffy was kinda hoping they'd have some answers by now.

"Well, from what we know about where she was, and from the assessment of her horrific injuries, it is quite likely that she expected that outcome."

Buffy frowns thoughtfully, considering. "It's more than that. I think it was something I said. Everything was peachy until I mentioned... decorating. Which I kinda get, because looking at fabric swatches? Not my idea of a good time."

"Buffy," Giles begins, and when did he get so damn perceptive anyway? "If you want to send someone else to stand guard, I'm sure there are others who would..."

""I don't want," she says firmly and a little protectively. "I brought her back here without permission. My bad. I should be the one to..."

"Save her from what you went through?"

And there it is, the reason she's so bugged about their mystery guest.

_"Is this hell?" she had asked, and they misunderstood at first, but eventually she couldn't hide the truth._

They've never really talked about it, the decision to bring her back and the consequences. Certainly nobody has apologised, and they never really understood how she could be anything but overjoyed to be back to fight another day. Buffy can't look at Giles, so she stares into the flames instead.

The question is not the reason she's been antsy all day, working off frustration in the sizeable school gym and fidgeting so much during the long and utterly tedious debriefing that Giles sent her on a fool's errand to get her out of the room.

"When I said no, it was like... It was like she was disappointed. Like she'd had something... taken away from her."

Of course Giles saw it, despite not having been there when Buffy first came back. It's suddenly very important that he understands.

"I get what it feels like. I wouldn't wish it on anybody, not even when I found out that Andrew tried to pawn off my stuff as 'Original Slayer' merchandise. Though when the little gremlin gets back from Australia, we're going to have words. Possibly nerd-slappage." She smirks a little, then sobers.

"I just... Having someone around who knows what it's like might make it easier, at least at first." Giles frowns, but stays silent. "Once we find her family, they can help with the rest."

He nods his consent as Buffy knew he would, warning in his eyes. He can't refuse her anything. "I'll have Kahla take over the Rota mission," he says after a pause, and satisfied, she rises and turns to leave.

His voice stops her at the door. "Buffy..."

"Not sixteen anymore, Watcher-Mine. Don't need the warning speech."

She doesn't wait for his response; just heads for the South Wing, hearing the broken voice in her head and wondering if despite her words maybe she needs that speech after all.

* * *

_Buffy and Giles will get their answers next chapter... and Ziva will get some of her own. As for NCIS, well, this will be the last we see of them for a chapter or so, mainly because I have mucho researcho to do on how a Jewish funeral might actually run, and all this in between reacquainting myself with work and home life and... reality in general. _

_As always, reviews are very much appreciated. :)_


	5. Questions and Answers

_A/N: I'm feeling generous. Two chapters in under two days, with a third on the way soon enough. :)_

_For those of you who are starting to wonder what the deal is with Ziva's body supposedly being two places at once - you'll have to wonder for a little longer. I'm very much enjoying reading all the theories and a little worried that my actual theory is just far too simple. _

* * *

JC Academy, Bath, England

Buffy leaves soon after Ziva wakes again, muttering something about boring meetings and training schedules. She clearly has some sort of authority in the school, though she seems amusingly exasperated with her responsibilities.

"What do I do here? Den mother, occasional teacher -Snyder would turn in his grave-mediator, idol, chief of search and destroy. It's complicated, and involves way more paperwork and way less beheading than I'd like," was the answer to her question, and like most things she's learnt about Buffy, the answer only brings more questions.

_Less_ beheading? Ziva hopes that's just another idiom she doesn't understand.

Caitlin, the owner of the young sunshine voice Ziva heard while she was 'out', turns out to be a tall platinum-blonde Australian girl (the polar opposite of the late American agent, who was short and brunette and crisply dressed in the photos she's seen).

Like Buffy, she moves about the room swiftly and quietly, though without the unconsciously predatory grace of the older woman. Disregarding the slight limp, it is plain as day that Buffy is very well trained in... something. Martial arts, perhaps? Ziva wants to ask 'trained for what?', but she's also not sure she wants to know the answer. It makes her nervous, thinking of the possibilities.

"Sophie, you feel like some lunch? The kitchen does a mean burger, and all that wea- uh, running, that I did this morning really gets the appetite going."

Sophie. It was the first name that came into her head when Buffy asked, and one that she's unused to hearing in a female voice. Ziva hates lying to the people who so far have been nothing but friendly and accommodating, but you can't be too careful, especially in a school that seems to advocate beheading.

"You run, Caitlin?"

"Huh? Oh yeah, there's a suspended track in the gym, and plenty of space on the grounds if the weather's nice. Which is hardly ever, because it's England and it rains like you wouldn't believe."

Ziva tries not to show her surprise. "England?"

Caitlin pauses mid-stride and covers her mouth. "Buffy didn't tell you that bit, huh? Crap."

Ziva's head is spinning. Apparently there's a lot Buffy has not told her. "Is there anything else I should know?"

Caitlin busies herself rummaging through a drawer, her back deliberately turned. "Uh, I can't really... I don't know. They're pretty big on the secrecy thing here. If you want, I'll get Giles to come answer some questions for you. He's kinda... the bossman around here."

Ziva nods and shifts in the bed, frustrated by her injuries and subsequent confinement. She itches to run, to work off the nervous energy that's been building since she woke, but her injuries might make that a problem. Among other things.

It gives her too much time to think, which is easier now that her head has cleared somewhat, but too often her thoughts turn to things she'd rather forget. Boots on flesh and questions and green eyes, and what exactly she's stumbled – no, been brought – into. The ignorant and uninformed have an annoying tendency to end up dead in her line of work.

It dawns on her suddenly that she is alone in the room for the first time. Alone, and awake, and filled with curiousity, both personal and professional. Ziva hates the feeling of not having a grip on her surroundings, and now seems like as good a time as any to do some reconaissance.

Sitting up takes more effort than she'd like, and just the simple act of pushing back the sheets and swinging her legs out of the bed leaves her aching and breathless.

She perches and pants and listens to the noise in the corridor. Cheerful teenage voices with a puzzling mix of accents buzz and fade. There is nothing that indicates anyone is approaching, and she allows herself ten seconds to regroup before taking a deep breath and pushing herself off the bed.

Spots dance in her vision and the pain flares but she is resolute, and she's completed missions under far more precarious circumstances, with worse injuries than this.

Jaw clenched against the pain, she makes her way to the window. _Wider location_. England. Which she already knew, thanks to Caitlin's slip. If she had a phone, McGee could triangulate her signal. Except... she doesn't, and the resources of NCIS are no longer hers to access...

_Focus, Ziva_.

Caitlin was not wrong when she said there was no shortage of space. If there is a fence around the grounds, it's further away than Ziva can see. Clouds hang like sodden blankets in the grey sky. Nothing more to gain here. She moves - hobbles - on.

_Immediate surroundings_. Small room, not in a hospital as she'd initially assumed. It was the one question that Buffy had actually answered, when Ziva made an offhand comment this morning that the hallway noise reminded her of high school.

"Close enough," Buffy had said with a shrug. " It's an exclusive boarding school for girls, invite only. You could say we cater to a certain kind of learner."

There's nothing lying around that sheds any light on anything, despite her methodical search of drawers and tables. Bandages, assorted medical supplies, and knock knacks (that doesn't sound quite right, but there's no-one to correct her), generic and unmarked other than the obligatory 'Made in China' stamp.

Ziva replaces things in their previous position, well trained in the art of covering her tracks. She closes the final drawer silently, discouraged but not entirely surprised. Buffy is no fool, and is unlikely to leave things lying around that she doesn't want seen. _'Secrecy thing'_, indeed.

Light flashes in the corner of her eye, the glint of sun on glass. Hidden behind the television is a bottle of water and a stick of wood too thick to be a twig and too thin to be a club. Curious, and yet oddly, something flickers in the back of her mind. Footsteps approach the door, and Ziva freezes until they pass, her train of thought forgotten.

Her body is betraying her, wasted muscles beginning to quiver with the movement and the tension of it all. Her vision blurs as she turns and begins the slow agonizing shuffle towards the bed. _Pushed too hard, Ziva_, she berates herself silently, her head spinning.

A flash of white to her right, a thin and ghostly figure shadowing her movements. She turns clumsily, ready for confrontation and stares, horrified and frozen in disbelief.

For a moment, she does not recognize her own face, swollen and distorted, shaded purple and yellow. One eye is black from eyebrow to pointed prominent cheekbone, and an angry scar runs across her forehead. A bandage covers the side of her neck and her eyes are huge and wild without... _oh._

The figure in the mirror sways and quakes at the sight of her shorn hair, ruined and alien despite the obvious attempts someone - Caitlin, perhaps - has made to neaten it. Ziva is not vain, but in the long dark hours of restless aching African nights she dreamed of hands stroking her dark mane, pushing it back from her sweaty face impossibly gently and pressing lips to forehead.

Tony once looked at her curls longingly like a child working up the courage to touch something forbidden, to run his fingers through it, and now there is nothing left. Gone, like her and him and them. She stares until the room begins to go dark at the edges.

She who is always alert and aware does not hear the man enter, nor sense his cautious approach, like one would approach a wild animal. He touches her arm lightly, and Ziva whirls to strike but sways and sinks instead. He catches and cradles and carries her, the soft scent of leather and cologne washing over her in waves.

He settles her on the bed gently, and sits patiently as she fights for control. She almost expects him to break into a long and rambling story, but he remains silent. Giles, she thinks, remembering Caitlin's promise. The boss. Their Gibbs, the one with the answers.

He mutters something too low for her ears, and a sweet scent of herbs fills the air. Everything melts away, and she is instantly and inexplicably calm.

"I am sorry that you had to see that on your own, Sophie," Giles says softly, and Ziva believes him. Like Buffy, she can't help but trust him despite herself.

"It was not Caitlin's fault. She... I was..."

He smiles at her timid attempt at protection. " You were curious, and understandably so. Forgive us for all of our secrecy, but we needed to make sure you were-"

"Trustworthy?" she supplies, understanding and yet stung. Giles blinks  
and adjusts his glasses.

"Up to the task of talking," he corrects gently. "You have questions, and our answers may be difficult to believe. We have questions which may be difficult for you to answer."

"Ooh, is it share time? Did you bring the magic talking stick?" Buffy appears next to the bed, her perky tone at odds with her concerned eyes. Ziva smiles in silent reassurance, and Buffy grins back at her. "Giles gets his cranky on when I steal his lines."

It's impossible not to be amused by her unique way of speaking. She reminds Ziva very much of Tony, with her attempts to lighten the mood.

"Buffy..." Giles rolls his eyes without any real exasperation, only fond affection, as Buffy perches carefully on the edge of the bed. They look at her expectantly.

Where to begin? Interrogation rule number 1. _Start with the small stuff_.

"We are somewhere in England..."

"That girl will be the death of us all," Buffy says with an exasperated laugh. "We're just outside Bath, actually. Great for privacy, not so great for proximity to shops." She shrugs, shooting a teasing glance at Giles. " He would jump in and say the earth was doomed, but he's dreaming of all the fox hunting and rain and tweed."

"I'm wondering when you'll get tired of making British jokes at my expense, actually,"

Ziva listens as they banter, sensing that this easy familiarity is something they haven't had in awhile. It means she doesn't have to talk about herself just yet, a fact she's grateful for.

"Sorry, Sophie," Buffy says suddenly, "It's been awhile. I've been… away a lot lately."

The words are out before she can stop them. "Rescuing strangers from African prison camps, yes?" They both look surprised. Careful, she warns herself. She'll keep the part about the demons to herself for now.

Buffy recovers quickly. "Among other exciting adventures." And sensing the question the blonde is about to ask, Ziva rushes to fill the silence.

"What exactly do you do here?" Other than dreaming of beheading and sneaking up on people, she adds silently. Her neck itches just thinking about it. Her neck...

She picks at the bandage as Buffy and Giles engage in some sort of wordless debate. Under the cotton, she feels twin puncture holes, right at her jugular, and just like that she's not in the little room any more.  
_  
She's sitting in a conference room filled with other Mossad officers, listening to an impossibly young dark-skinned girl talk about things most people only see in their nightmares. Training them to recognize and react, though only if absolutely necessary._

She's still smarting from the shock of Jenny's death and Vance's splitting up their team. She listens with half an ear and wonders how Tony is coping with his new post on the USS Hellhole, as he called it. It's been sixteen days, and no word from him. Maybe tonight she will have some time to email the team, before her plane leaves for Paris. Another target, another pretty mask to wear, another piece of herself chipped away. Orders.

She feels Hadar's gimlet eyes on her face, watching her closely, and forces herself to listen.

"The best way to slay a vampire is with..."

"A stake," Ziva says aloud, her eyes jumping to the television.

"Say what?" Buffy says in surprise, and Zivs nearly groans at her continued carelessness. Honestly, it's a wonder it hasn't gotten her killed.

"Caitlin mentioned something about lunch..." she offers weakly, and Buffy's eyes narrow but she lets it go.

"Hungry? God, we really suck at the hosting thing. You want a steak?"

"I could eat," Ziva says, not hungry in the slightest but thinking of her thin face in the mirror, " But perhaps not steak. It was just... Caitlin was recommending the burgers..."

"I'll see what I can scrounge up. Back in a minute." She flies out the door, a blonde whirlwind.

Giles watches her with sharp eyes, and she has the feeling neither of them were fooled by her misdirection. The questions stick in her throat. She can't reveal her knowledge of the supernatural without explaining how she came about it, and to do that might mean discovery. Despite the stake and the bottle of what she figures is holy water, someone is obviously going to considerable trouble not to give her a straight answer.

Considering she herself is being far less than honest, she can't be _too_ mad about that.

She has a fair idea now what Buffy (and perhaps Caitlin), is and does, and by extension what role Giles plays, but there are pieces missing from the puzzle... and how to ask without raising suspicion?

"You look as though you have more questions, Sophie," Giles says evenly, his eyes revealing nothing. "Or perhaps something to tell us?"

She can't think fast enough to escape the tangle of the web she's trapped in.

"Is Buffy your daughter?" she asks, stalling for time. Giles blinks and chuckles.

"Not by blood, but she _is_ family," he says in response, and she understands the meaning. Sometimes the families you make yourself mean more than those you are born into.

"I've known Buffy and her friends since she was sixteen." He blushes, hearing how it must sound, and rushes to explain. "I was the librarian at her high school, and Buffy was... a keen reader."

Giles is awkward and in much the same position as she - needing to explain without being able to actually explain. _Mission accomplished_, she thinks, as he cleans his glasses furiously. She almost feels bad for him. Outside, rain spatters on the window relentlessly. The sight is hypnotizing, and she can't help but stare.

"I must say, Sophie, that was very well done," he says coolly, without looking up, and suddenly Ziva forgets how to breathe.

"I did not mean..."

"To offend me? Or to distract me?" He doesn't sound angry, just shrewdly curious.

"I wanted to... make you feel how I feel," she says simply, watching him carefully.

"And how is that?" Still no anger or mistrust behind the words. She falters in the face of it, searching for a way out.

She touches her neck hesitantly, and he follows her fingers with his eyes. "I feel..." she says slowly, tears threatening again. She feels cornered and caged and vulnerable without her weapons. He waits.

Sighing, she abandons all thoughts of continuing the ruse, turning her back on everything she's ever been taught about strategy and interrogation and undercover work.

She looks Giles directly in the eye "My name is not Sophie," she says quietly. "My name is Ziva. I was ordered to locate and destroy a terrorist training camp in Africa. I was under deep cover in Europe, gathering intel for the operation, on the orders of my Director." She laughs, and it echoes bitterly.

"I fell asleep in a safehouse in Russia after a night of plying an arms dealer with vodka in order to extract the address to which he was sending his next shipment. I regained consciousness in that filthy cell with a demon guard watching as a vampire sank his teeth into my neck." Her fingers brush the bandage again, and she shudders at the memory.

Giles appears to be processing her words, but his face is as unreadable as Gibbs's on a bad day. "Director of _what_, exactly?" he asks, though his eyes suggest that he's filled in the gaps and just needs confirmation.

Ziva sighs, every nerve and sinew resisting the answer. Trained to the last not to betray despite being betrayed herself.

"I am - _was_ - an officer of the Mossad."

"Ah," he says immediately, sitting forward in the chair and rubbing his chin. " Was, or are?"

"I do not know," she says, thinking of orders, the way her father kissed her on the cheek as he sent her on what he must have known was a suicide mission. "I imagine that my reappearance at the Institute would not come as a pleasant surprise."

"Definitely explains the quick response and annoying questions from Team Ninja ," Buffy says from the doorway, a tray in her hands and a thoughtful expression on her face. "Moshe said they were searching for something in the area. He was **way** too interested in our report at the debriefing. I thought I smelt a ninja rat, but Xand said I'd just been watching too many cartoons."

"Mossad... assisted in my rescue?"

"Not exactly." Giles says warily. " We informed them that we had uncovered what we thought was suspicious terrorist activity in the area, and that backup from an organisation with knowledge of the terrain and considerable firepower-"

"Guns are not our friend," Buffy interrupts.

"-Would be appreciated. Their job was to move in after we had rescued one of our people, and destroy the cell and all traces of demonic activity."

"We found the intel, Mossad did the wet works and take the credit. Works fine for us. When I found you... well, I just added an extra body to our flight plan," Buffy says with a shrug, " I didn't see any reason to inform them of the change at the time."

She eyes Ziva and takes in her surprise and quiet horror. "Breathe, Soph... _Ziva_. Pretty name, by the way. Moshe -and I guess your Director- got the Cliffs Notes version of the report. We're not big on trusting government goons round here, especially those with a jones for demon knowledge."

Giles looks briefly at Buffy, frowning. She grins wickedly.

"You've gone and rained on Giles's parade. He loves doing the 'one girl in all the world' speech. Woefully dated now, considering the one has become 'many', but still..."

Ziva cannot believe her ears. "You are not going to..."

"Return to sender?" Buffy supplies, her grin disappearing. " That depends. They the ones that addressed the package to Demonville, Eritrea?"

Thoroughly overwhelmed and unsure what to think, Ziva nods, and something akin to pity flares in Buffy's eyes. Pity, and the steely edges of anger. She looks like a predator stalking her unwitting prey. Stalk and strike. It's hidden so fast that Ziva wonders if she  
imagined it.

Exhaustion and relief fold over her like a blanket. She wants to curl up and sob like a child.

"Buffy," Giles says softly but firmly, "a word outside?"

Ziva doesn't hear Buffy's reply through the growing fog, but a moment later she is alone again in the small room, wrung out and boneless on the bed and wondering how she is _ever_ going to sleep considering all that's happened.

Seconds later, the darkness claims her.

* * *

Outside, the corridor is deserted, and Giles is thankful for the unusual quiet. Buffy leans against the stone wall and closes her eyes. He joins her a moment later and the silence between them throbs.

"Buffy, we-"

"Giles, I love you, but if you're gonna tell me we have to contact Mossad, don't waste your breath."

She doesn't open her eyes as she says it, and so she misses his hurt look. Have they really grown that far apart in the past few months? For a moment, falling back into easy banter, he had thought that things were getting back to something approaching normal.

"There are-"

"Professional obligations, rules, major trust issues, blah blah blah. I. Still. Don't. Care. What part of 'not a pleasant surprise' did you not understand? I saw the Bourne Identity. She's going to be 'taken care of', Giles, and not in a hugs and hot tea kinda way "

"Buffy!" he says sharply and louder than he intended, but it stops her mid sentence. Her eyes snap open and she turns to him. "I was simply going to say that if Ziva is going to be here for awhile, there are some practical things we should consider."

Her obvious surprise stings, but he continues regardless. "While I'm rather impressed that you have considered our professional obligations..." He's spent too much time talking to bureaucrats lately, and it shows. He tries again.

"I can hardly blame her for not wanting to reveal her... affiliations. We haven't exactly been forthcoming with information either."

Buffy grins despite herself. "I'm going to have to bring back the word fines if you keep this up."

_(If he remembers correctly, he owes her at least $87, most of it incurred after spending a month liaising with the Italian government to set up an ICWS field office just outside Rome. Politics brings out the dictionary geek in you and the rich girl in me, Buffy had quipped at the time.)_

He sighs, thinking of the look he'd seen on Soph... _Ziva's_ face as she stood trembling in front of her own reflection. _Was it like that for you_, he suddenly wants to ask Buffy, _when you woke up in your coffin? Or did it come after, when you realised where you were?_"Earth to Giles," Buffy says, peering curiously at him. "Where did you just go?" Not a question he wants to answer.

"As I was saying... the infirmary is no slum, but hardly peaceful with the Slayers constantly tramping through the corridors. Our guest might be more comfortable in the staff quarters, perhaps?" At least until they can come up with an alternative.

Buffy nods her agreement, and her eyes light up. "Ooh! Shopping!" He fights the urge to roll his eyes.

"Well, a girl cannot live in borrowed hospital gowns alone, Giles," his Slayer says defensively. It's been months since she's been been this... carefree, and he would do almost anything to keep the smile on her face.

"Perhaps it could wait until her injuries have healed, Buffy. The girl can hardly stand, let alone traipse around the mall."

Buffy looks thoughtfully at the closed door, listening. "She's asleep," she says after a moment. "But since you brought up the injury thing... I think there's a way we could help with that. You good here for awhile?"

He nods, and watches her disappear down the long corridor, a welcome spring in her step.

Giles would move mountains to keep it there.

* * *

_Reviews are always very much appreciated :)_


	6. The Burn

___**A/N:**The chapter title comes from the Matchbox Twenty song, Burn, which I was listening to while writing the first part._

-- And I wonder how I never got the burn, and if I'm never gonna learn, how lonely people make their life; one strain at a time (and still shine) --

A note about the times of each segment - the times given are local according to the city that the characters are in. Disregarding the DC part, Tel Aviv is 2 hours ahead of England - at least according to Google and the World Clock. So really, things in Tel Aviv and England pretty much happen simultaneously. Hope it doesn't confuse everyone too much!

Thanks to **Catlimere** for directions to a great site about Jewish funeral customs. Errors in procedure and Hebrew are both mine and Google's, since the latter provided about 35 different ways of writing/translating the blessings etc, and the former (me) is completely ignorant of Jewish customs.

Blood sweat and tears were shed over this part, which just wouldn't go the way I wanted it to no matter how many re-writes it went through. Sigh. I hate posting when I'm not 100% happy with things, but there comes a time when you gotta 'plunge and move on.' Witness me, plunging._Gibbs's Basement, Washington DC._

* * *

0252, Tuesday.

They sit, stiff and silent in the empty space where boats that never sail are built by steady sleepless hands.

The room still smells of sawdust. Nobody asks what happened to the boat. In the corner an axe is propped against the shadowed wall, sharp and glinting in the dim light. Tony's eyes flit between the axe and the shadow of a stain on the concrete floor. He thinks of angry words and angrier guns, echoing in the heavy air. Sightless eyes and seeping blood and Gibbs lowering his weapon with steady righteous hands.

He wonders if Ziva wept for Ari when she heard, for the man she called 'brother' and they called 'monster'. He can't imagine her young and carefree any more than he can imagine her cold and still.

Tony waits his turn, accepts the mason jar filled with bourbon from Gibbs. He tilts his head and pours the amber liquid down his throat in one swift motion. It burns like fire, he thinks, and lets out a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. He wonders if Ziva felt the flames scorch and sear her golden skin, and hopes she was already beyond feeling anything by then.

He wonders if there's anyone in the family she was born into who will shed tears for her.

Through the static of alcohol buzzing in his ears and veins, he hears Abby's ragged, tear-soaked breathing rise above his own; sees Ducky's bowed head and Gibbs's turned back. He suddenly realises that the burn in his throat is not from the bourbon, but from the tears that make his face glisten in the swinging flickering light.

Ziva's family sit stiff and sleepless among the swirl of bourbon and sawdust and grief.

* * *

_0752, Tuesday_

_JC Academy, England_

Weak morning sunlight filters through the window as Ziva blinks awake and frowns at the time. Another sign of her weakness – the seemingly endless need for sleep. She should have been up hours ago, but the ache from her 'reconnaissance' mission yesterday lingers.

The door cracks open, disturbing Ziva from her musing. "Entrez," she says absently, then remembers where she is. "Come in," she translates quickly. Buffy pokes her head through the door sheepishly. There's a fading bruise on her temple, but she seems cheerful enough.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. And hey, you speak French! Handy skill."

"You did not wake me." Ziva replies, frowning a little as she notices the stranger standing behind Buffy in the doorway.

"So I was thinking that you might be itching to get out of this room," the Slayer says, perching on the end of the bed. "Maybe explore a little, go for a run around the grounds?" Ziva eyes her bruised and broken body pointedly, wondering if the American was hit harder than it looks.

Buffy just shrugs, and beckons the stranger forward. For the first time, Ziva notices the odd assortment of objects the kindly-looking woman is holding. "Thanks to the good people of the McClay Department, we can make the impossible possible – and I should really talk to Giles about adding that to our letterhead…" Ziva still doesn't quite follow, and it must show on her face.

"What's your stance on magic?"

_

* * *

_

_Wednesday, 0600. _

_Approaching Tel Aviv, Israel._

The plane ride to Tel Aviv is, predictably, horrendous. Teeth rattle in aching, bourbon-heavy heads, and weary hearts lurch with the turbulence and the sick feeling of what the day will bring.

Abby and McGee lean limply on each other, drifting in and out of sleep. Tim's face is distinctly green from the rock and roll of the plane, and if they were anywhere else Tony would be teasing him mercilessly about it.

In the here and now, Tony alternates between staring at the ceiling and floor of the plane as though his task was to take an inventory of each nut, bolt, and fixture on the aircraft. His jaw is clenched as if to keep himself from screaming.

Ducky _almost_ wishes Jimmy was here to break the silence with an inappropriate joke, but his assistant had an important exam to sit and the university would not reschedule it unless the deceased was a blood relative. How to explain what they are to each other, their broken little family of misfits?

Gibbs has his eyes closed but Ducky, who likes to think he knows Gibbs better than any of them, knows he is not asleep. His left eyelid twitches every now and then, a sign that he's mulling over something. He wonders what Jethro's famous gut is telling him now.

"Something you need, Duck?" Blue eyes pierce him, a silent warning that now is not the time. Opposite, Vance shifts his gaze to the pair, alert and watchful. They are the first words spoken aloud in hours, and they hover lazily in the air. _Yes_, he thinks. _There is something – _someone_ – we all need._

Ducky shakes his head and turns his attention to the sheaf of papers in his grip – the autopsy report and test results Mossad had so _kindly_ allowed them to view as gruesome and graphic confirmation (as though Director David knew that Gibbs would not rest until he had proof). Unlike Tony's supposed death years ago, there is no discrepancy between what he knows and what he reads. He wishes there was with all of his worn and aged heart. Only twice before has he ever so fervently wanted to doubt his craft.

_Deceased suffered severe burns to extremities and upper torso, in addition to multiple shrapnel wounds to face and body. Lungs and trachea examined for signs of smoke inhalation but were proclaimed too badly damaged by the explosion and subsequent fire to conclusively determine ultimate cause of death._

His eyes read and reread, drawn to the lines like a car crash you just can't turn away from, despite the knowledge that beyond the flashing lights and crushed metal people are hurting bleeding dying.

Ducky folds the well-thumbed papers into his bag as the plane begins its descent, and says a silent prayer to whoever might be listening that Ziva did not suffer.

* * *

_0400, Wednesday._

_JC Academy, England_.

_You killed me,_ Tali whispers, her young face ravaged by shrapnel. _You talked all the time about that coffee shop, and finally I was old enough to go there with my friends after school, and now I am like this. _She waves an arm, and there's a ragged stump where her hand should be. Ziva screams at the sight of it, and her eyes snap open and stare into the darkness. Sweat beads at her temples and trickles into her newly re-grown hair.

Broken and bruised, Ziva slept like a log. Whole and healed, she wakes even earlier than she used to _before_, still hearing Tali's voice echoing in her ears. Her new room – apartment, really - is still unfamiliar, though much larger and more lavishly furnished than the last.

Even before Africa, she would wake in the middle of the night, sweaty and breathless and haunted by ghosts from her past. Tali. Ari. Jenny. Targets – mostly men – that she'd been assigned to eliminate or interrogate or steal from. There were many over the years, and they blur before her, nameless but united in their accusations. _Murderer. Seductress. Thief. _Bad dreams are something of an occupational hazard, and Ziva was very, _very_ good at her job.

She burns with the need to outrun her ghosts, and slips quickly into borrowed workout gear, the pink top almost neon in the bright lamp-light. _Beggars can't be choosers_, she thinks, and imagines Tony's proud smile at the correct phrase.

As she closes the door quietly and turns on silent feet towards the gym, she notices light glowing from under Buffy's door further down the hall. She barely has time to wonder before yellow light floods the corridor and Buffy steps out and stops in surprise, her sneakers squeaking on the stone floor.

The Slayer forces a smile, but her eyes are hooded and haunted, and in the early hours she is worlds away from the chatty, cheerful person that Ziva is both fond of and utterly mystified by. They move in silence through the empty halls, their ghosts floating in the air behind them.

* * *

_0630, Wednesday._

_Tel Aviv, Israel._

"What, no welcome wagon?" Tony mutters as the ramp of the plane touches concrete, and Abby blinks, shading her eyes against the brilliant and traitorous sunshine. Everything about this is so, so wrong.

She always imagined travelling to Israel (third on her must-visit list, after the Galapagos Islands and Dollywood) in a plane with real seats, overly perky flight attendants, and meals that are more packaging than actual food. Arriving at a real airport, not an almost-deserted military base, and shocking the duty-free attendants by asking if Dior made lipstick in black. Wandering the streets of Tel Aviv, playing spot-the-Mossad-officer, and maybe gaining some insight into Ziva's world and why she is so…

_Was_, Abby corrects herself sharply, jolted from her internal musing. As if she could forget for a _second_ why they're really here. They stand on the sun-baked concrete in a ragged clump, watching as two black Mercedes SUVs round the corner and draw closer.

They pull up sharply, further confirmation that this is no vacation, and the trunks pop in tandem as though saying "_You're welcome here, but schlep your own bags." _

In a way, despite the lingering sick feeling from the turbulence, bourbon and plane fumes, she's glad that they came military-style. At least this way she can keep _some_ parts of her dream untouched, though she'll probably never be able to come to Israel again knowing that somewhere nearby, Ziva lies underground in a plain pine box. A ruined angel shrouded in white.

There was once a time when she couldn't stand the Mossad Liaison Officer, simply because her presence on the team meant that Kate was really dead, and now she cannot imagine her world without Ziva in it. She stumbles toward the closest vehicle, Gibbs steadying her with a firm hand.

"When we get home," she says fiercely to no-one in particular, "I am going to lock all of you in my lab until you promise only to take cases that do not involve even the slightest chance of any of you getting hurt." Tim sputters something about stuffing envelopes, and she stamps her foot petulantly.

"I'm serious, McGee! Not. Even. A. Paper. Cut. Any more of this, and I'll be – I'll be Loony Margaret from your building, the one with the bazillion cats and the ratty pink housecoat." For a second she can't decide what's worse – living with all the yowling, or wearing something Pepto-Bismol pink.

From the front seat, Vance snorts at her words and she almost snaps at him, but oddly enough the more she rambles the less it hurts, as though the torrent of words is helping to untwist her knots. They nose their way through the traffic, driven who knows where by god knows who (Abby really hopes at least Vance knows what's going on), and McGee asks hesitantly what they should expect, at the funeral and after.

Abby tunes the answer out, not because she doesn't care but because she's too busy untangling. The 'right now' is about all she can handle, without hearing about what comes next.

She had once listened to Ziva – in an unusually melancholy mood thanks to a difficult case and five straight-up tequila shooters – talk about the danger and senseless death that was a part of Israeli life. Ziva had described her homeland as a bright coin tarnished by unrest and sorrow, and as the cars approach a non-descript hotel in downtown Tel Aviv, Abby watches from the window, surveying the streets. A sway of hips and toss of wild hair, on the corner ahead. The telltale bulge of a sidearm underneath a slightly long jacket, there and there and there. She is everywhere and nowhere.

"What're you looking for, Abs?" Gibbs asks evenly,

"A Caf-Pow machine. They have those here?" she says flippantly, but her heart drums in her chest (_zi-va zi-va zi-va) _and she breathes in the bitter sunshine like she wants it to burn.

* * *

_0500, Wednesday_

_JC Academy, England._

Her feet pound around the suspended track in the almost empty gym. Sweat beads and trickles, and her ponytail bounces on her neck, wet curls escaping to frame her flushed and steaming face. She's not sure where Buffy went, but she's glad of the solitude.

The pain in her chest is a heady mixture of exertion and grief, and absent is the ache of cracked ribs that she had become almost accustomed to over the past weeks. Delivered so easily from punishment, she seeks now to inflict it upon herself. It almost doesn't feel right, to not be in pain.

Her heart pounds in rhythm with her feet. _To-ny. To-ny. To-ny_. She wonders if they're looking for her, or if they've moved onto the next case, welcomed the next member of the team and left her behind.

Ari whispers snake-like in her ear _Little sister, dear Ziva, __**you**__ left __**them**_.

She picks up the pace.

* * *

_0800, Wednesday_

_Tel Aviv, Israel._

Tim's not sure how it happens, but he and Abby end up sharing a room in the clean but basic hotel (the NCIS budget sure ain't what it used to be). They have two more hours to kill before the funeral, and both of them are wired with the strongest oily diner-style coffee they could find in a two-block radius. He's sworn off bourbon, possibly for life.

They sit entwined on the couch, Abby's knees pulled up to her chest and his arm draped around her shoulders. She still wears her black lace veil and oddly, it did not draw as many curious stares from the people on the street as he'd expected. It makes him smile, how she is unflinchingly sure of herself despite what others might think.

They're both pretending to be engrossed in a local sitcom, broadcast entirely in Hebrew, and the level of their feigned concentration would be laughable if it weren't so damn sad. Anything to escape.

The fake laughter echoes through the small room, and McGee wonders if there are such things as Hebrew idioms. He thinks of Ziva and her continued frustration at the English language (though sometimes he wondered if she mixed things up just to annoy Tony).

Scrabble tiles and superglue and Ziva poking her finger through the 9mm hole in her NCIS cap.

Later, Gibbs took her to the firing range and asked her what she was willing to shoot for, and she understood about the hole, though nobody ever owned up to putting it there. _Next time_, he thinks with a grin, _she promised to shoot for Tony_. Then he remembers that there won't be a next time.

Abby sighs and leans against him, warm and soft and impossibly real, and before he knows it he's brushing the veil from her face and capturing her lips with his own.

They are two lost sailors adrift in a stormy sea, seeing land for the first time in days, and they cling to the familiar feeling. There is little beauty in it, little poetry. Lips clash and sparks fly and they tear buttons from shirts with clumsy impatient fingers, like two horny teenagers groping in the backseat of Daddy's car ten minutes before curfew.

Later, McGee will remind himself that the definition of insanity is repeating the same actions and expecting different results, and they've already been down this path with mixed success. Right now he welcomes the absence of anything but the taste and touch and smell of her, something familiar in a foreign world, a world without Ziva.

Abby leans into his touch, moaning low and throaty into his open mouth, and delicious heat spreads like wildfire through his groin.

They barely make it to the bed.

************

_1000, Wednesday_

_Mount of Olives Cemetery, Tel Aviv._

The sun beats down on their backs as they walk solemnly through the cemetery in small groups of two or three. Abby walks with Ducky, leaving McGee trailing slightly behind, and neither of them look at each other. Gibbs, who misses almost nothing, notices the awkward tension between them and frowns.

They sit in a long unbroken line towards the back, unsure of their place among Ziva's co-workers, family and friends. Around them, Hebrew rises and falls in soft bubbling cadences, the words unrecognizable but the tone clear. The air smells of freshly turned earth, tears and starch. He can just make out Eli David at the front of the crowd, a tear in the fabric of the right side of his shirt, just visible underneath his light jacket, which has been clearly cut at the lapel.

Beside him, a tall dark-haired woman stands with her head bowed, her shirt torn clear through to caramel skin. The edges of the rip are jagged like teeth, like the two halves of a broken heart.

"Is that – " Tony asks wonderingly.

"Guess so, DiNozzo. Surprised?"

"Not really, Boss. "

Truth be told, they had assumed Ziva's mother was dead. The woman – Mrs David, Gibbs assumes – wears the too-familiar flayed-to-bone look of a parent horrified to have outlived her child. Children.

The Mossad Director looks calm and composed on the outside, but his eyes are hooded and even from this distance Gibbs can plainly see his anguish. Vance shoots them a look that clearly says 'Behave,' (_as if they would disrespect her_), and leaves them standing adrift, approaching Eli and shaking the grieving man's hand.

Gibbs eyes the two powerful men as the rabbi motions for quiet, and the service begins. Vance does not return, taking a seat among men Gibbs vaguely recognises as heads of various agencies around the world, and isn't it fitting for Eli David to use his own daughter's funeral as an exercise in strengthening international relations?

He swallows the sudden anger and concentrates on the soft lilt of the rabbi's voice, as eulogies and psalms and what he vaguely recognises as the memorial prayer (wife #2 had many Jewish friends despite not being Jewish herself) wash over them like gently breaking waves in a lazy green sea.

"_El ma'aleh rachamim, sho-chayn bahm'romim, Ha'm'tzei m'nukha n'khona, Al kanfei HaShekhinah." _The rabbi pauses and repeats the lines in English. "_God who is full of compassion, who dwells beyond, grant a full and perfect rest under the wings of your sheltering presence."_

And so it continues, until they hear '_ameyn_' and echo the word back in time with the rest of the mourners. Sobs pierce the glittering rays of sun and dance like a broken ballerina without music, a language that is universal.

On his right, Tony shudders with the effort not to break down, and McGee is breathing heavily and staring fixedly at the rabbi. Beside him, Abby sits stonily as tears cascade down her face, unchecked and seemingly unnoticed. Her mouth moves in what might be a prayer of her own. Ducky is patting her hand, though his own face is unreadable.

Gibbs's eyes burn as they wait their turn to file past the grave. Tony looks over at him, silently asking a question. "Take the shovel from the ground, not from someone's hand. Three shovelfuls of dirt; then prop it up on the pile," he murmurs, and Tony nods.

He hesitates in front of the open grave, half covered with rich soil, and despite what he's been told he drops to his knees before the yawning gaping hole and whispers words too soft for Gibbs to hear.

Tony stabs the shovel into the earth like he is stabbing anyone that ever did her wrong, and angry clumps thud into the hole. Gibbs understands the anger of being left behind.

Gibbs takes his turn, stands before Ziva's grave and feels watchful eyes on his back. He does not turn around and he does not speak – they are not people of words, he and Ziva, they are people of actions. Dirt from his shovel rains down on her grave gently and the smell of the soil floats up around him, fresh pine and cut grass and damp earth.

Eli and Ziva's mother (Gibbs doesn't know her name) and a handful of family members stand to the side, accepting condolences from mourners as they leave the gravesite. Eli's eyes still watch him cautiously as he stands before the man who sent his daughter to her death and dutifully and somewhat haltingly recites the required prayer. "_Hamakom y'nachem etchem b'toch sh'ar availai tziyon veelyerushalayim_."

_May God comfort you among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem._ Who was there to comfort your only remaining daughter in _her_ last moments; he wants to ask, but despite his anger Gibbs cannot bring himself to be so cruel. Eli nods his thanks at the condolence, and the two men stand in silence for a beat before Gibbs joins Vance and his team on the fringes of the cemetery.

They weave silently through the headstones, an odd cluster of lost-looking sheep following an unwelcome leader back to the safety of the fenced yard.

* * *

_0830, Wednesday._

_JC Academy, England._

Ziva marvels at her unbroken skin as she towels off after her bath, the air heavy with steam. What they call 'staff quarters' is not exactly the sparse accommodation she imagined from childhood tales of boarding school.

Nothing is done by halves in this place. Ziva is living proof of that.

"If you wish to… forget… a certain period of time, that can be arranged as well." Effie (the Wiccan healer) had said haltingly, but Ziva was already shaking her head no. Tempting as it was to simply erase the past, to go back to a time when things were simple, there are people all over the globe who will not forget, so what is the point of her hiding, oblivious to the consequences of her actions – or even the acts themselves – and waiting for them to track her down?

She likes to think of Tony and Gibbs moving heaven and earth to find her, in the moments before sleep when the logical part of her brain has almost shut down.

Ziva wonders if Effie knows a spell to heal broken betrayed barely beating hearts.

* * *

_**A/N:** Sorry about the epic note at the start. I'll try to keep it short in future. :) __A massive thankyou to those who take the time to review. You rock my world._


	7. Cross Your Heart

___**A/N:** I suspect that my return to uni is the cause of all this excessive wordiness. Academic writing often means saying in 250 words what normal people say in 50, and judging by the descriptive vs dialogue ratio of this, I need to find a way to turn off my inner academic. Sigh._

I can't believe there are over 15,000 hits on this story. Colour me stunned. Thanks to everyone who's been reading/following, and especially to everyone who takes the time to review.  
I try to answer where I can, and love to talk about the shows and fic in general, so if you have a question or something you want clarified, or anything really, drop me a line via email or review.

Emails etc generally answered within 24 hours barring apocalypse or internet problems.

On with the show, which I'm sorry to say contains no NCIS. Next chapter, expect fireworks. That's all I'm sayin'. ;)

Sentences in _italics_ are usually thoughts, both the 'magical communication device' kind and the 'internal character musing' kind.

* * *

Saturday, 2330

_San Francisco, California_

She sashays casually down the street, her hips swinging slightly as though she's dancing to her own silent beat. Her heels click on the grotty sidewalk as people – men, mostly – eye her appreciatively. Clad in skin-tight denim and silver sparkles that reflect the lights and catch the eye, she is young and beautiful and oblivious to the attention she's getting.

The city street is pulsing with colour and noise, neon lights (green and purple and blue) blinking fitfully as though promising excitement beyond belief to the people walking the streets. _Happy Hour 6-9pm! All-U-Can-Eat Texas BBQ Ribs! DJ Every Night!_

_Come in from the darkness and sit awhile,_ the signs scream in pulsing staccato bursts. _Drink and laugh and dance and live; breathe in the youth and beauty of this city._

He falls in behind her silently, weaving through the thinning crowd with preternatural grace. He is hungry, and she is irresistible, tanned and lean and wrapped so nicely in pretty paper, a present begging to be unwrapped.

She slows and tilts her head, scanning the sidewalk opposite, and he fades into the darkness of the nearest alley, waiting for the right moment to resume the hunt.

He will take her picture when he's done with her, send it to a few choice friends who just last night were joking that he couldn't get a girl if she was lying tied up in front of him.

_After this one_, he muses as she picks up the pace again, _I think I'll head for DC; sample some East Coast cuisine; maybe see what all the damned fuss is about. _Word on the street is that Washington will be the place to be before long. 'A demon's paradise', Grac'nin'shik told him over O-Pos martinis at Willy's Sunset Tavern, just last Tuesday.

In front of him, his prey is chatting loudly on her cell in Spanish, her words punctuated by breathy giggles. _Boyfriend_, he thinks gleefully, and wonders about the practicality of dragging the body across town to leave broken on her lover's doorstep.

He dismisses the idea as quickly as it forms.

He continues walking casually, hands in pockets like a bored businessman out for a midnight stroll. Closing the gap. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. His heart would speed up with the delicious anticipation, if it were beating at all.

He can't hide a grin when she turns left into what he knows is a dead-end alley. She's still yammering on, unaware of the danger.

He enters on silent feet, trying to decide the best way to arrange her for the picture; and realises a split-second too late that he can't hear her talking any more. Before he can react, he's blindsided by a well-placed right hook, and his head snaps back so fast he sees stars.

Stars and whirling silver sequins and the flash of a dangerous smile as she strikes again, her heel catching him dead centre in the chest and sending him staggering backward, more from the surprise than from the power of it.

He comes up snarling and yellow-eyed, his intentions of a quick and elegant kill forgotten. He has her by the throat almost before she can move.

"You got lucky, little girl."

She blinks, then laughs bitterly, inches from his face. "You cannot believe what you see in the movies," she says wryly, and pain flares in his chest from the stake he even never saw her reach for. "The helpless girl in the alley is not always the prey."

He crumbles, and Ziva brushes the dust from her clothes with steady hands, not bothering to look up as familiar footsteps approach.

"I'd give you an eight," Buffy says decisively, with a grin. "Four for the lure, three for the fight, and a bonus point for looking like sex on a stick in _my_ boots." She frowns mock-seriously. "You lost two points for the overly wordy pun. Remember: short and sweet."

"Bite me," Ziva replies with a smirk, braiding her hair with skilled fingers. She's really not looking forward to the ride back to England later tonight, still not entirely sure how she feels about hurtling through space in some kind of magical... whatever it was called. "Did Caitlin and Kelly find what they were looking for?"

Buffy nods as they start walking quickly back the way they came. "Xand just reported in. Caitlin's tracked them to a warehouse downtown, registered to MDP Pty Ltd. They went belly-up in the last stock market crash, and from what we can tell, were just waiting for the accountants to finish settling debts before clearing out all together. Don't think your standard moving service deals with nest removal. Too bad for them Clauneck demons don't care about 'No Trespassing' signs, huh?"

Ziva's still not entirely sure what a Clauneck is, but Buffy doesn't seem too concerned by the possibility of facing a nest of them. "Piece of cake," she'd said before they left. "We go. We shop. We slay. Maybe ride one of those cable cars."

Ahead, an inconspicuous dark sedan idles on the side of the road, parking lights on. They climb in and Buffy continues, sliding across the seat nimbly. "We move in at 0130. Xander's meeting us at the apartment, Cait, so if you wanna head there first…"

From the driver's seat, Caitlin nods her assent, glancing quickly and tightly over at Kelly as she pulls away from the kerb. Ziva eyes her sympathetically, understanding Caitlin's concern. The petite, dark-skinned young Slayer had been resistant to the idea of more fieldwork at first, but once she heard that Buffy was going to be lead Slayer on the operation, she soon changed her mind.

Having spent the last week learning about Buffy's world and observing classes and training sessions (at Giles's suggestion, accepted out of curiosity and a lack of anything else to do), Ziva can't help but notice the way Buffy – and Faith, who she's yet to meet – are idolised by the less experienced Slayers. Kelly is no exception.

Now that they're here, though, Kelly is distinctly on edge, and despite not having experience with the finer points of the ICWS world, Ziva does know that there's nothing more dangerous than a partner you cannot trust to keep their head. Demons or no demons. She makes a mental note to have a word with Buffy about it when they get a moment alone.

Exhilarated and a little sore (vampires, it turns out, are stronger than they look), Ziva watches the city lights glitter in the distance as Buffy and Caitlin continue to chat quietly.

* * *

_Sunday, 0100_

_San Francisco, CA_

Xander watches with some amusement as Ziva rearranges the magazines on the coffee table for the fourth time in as many minutes. They're all woefully outdated, since the apartment is rarely used (not a lot of demon activity in San Fran), but the ex-Mossad officer is staring at the cover of Cosmopolitan, as though '101 Ways to Look Sexy for Him' may just be the best thing she'll ever read.

Not that she needs any tips, even after changing out of what Buffy called her 'vamp-magnet' clothes and into cargo pants and a plain, tight black singlet. When Buffy's team appeared on the grounds of the Academy after their extraction, Ziva was no more than a fragile bag of bones in Buffy's arms.

Every day he thinks he's seen the worst that men can do, but seeing her shorn and beaten and bruised beyond belief, he was once again proven wrong.

Now, thanks to a combination of magic, hearty English food and daily combat training alongside Slayers, she's like a whole different person, and there's something kind of… captivating, and mysterious… about her. He thanks whoever's listening that now he's older and more mature, he no longer turns into a gooey puddle when he meets a hot girl. Woman. Whatever.

He likes a bit of danger in his woman.

"_Oh, I could __**so**__ have done without that mental image,"_ Buffy snorts in his ear.

He topples ungracefully from the chair and Ziva looks up in surprise. _Damn magical comm. system__, when did they turn that on_, he thinks pointedly, picking himself up as Buffy laughs under her breath.

_Thirty before 'go time' as always, _she reminds him._ I wouldn't recommend asking her if you can 'have' her, Xand; we're a little busy here and won't be back to untie you for awhile_. He's suddenly relieved that Ziva's not privy to this conversation. It's nice to hear Buffy laughing again, though. It's been awhile.

The subject of their unvoiced conversation has given up on the magazines, and is wandering around the room, looking at pictures and knick-knacks and obviously tense. Most of the stuff belongs to him, since he was the last one here – four months ago he spent two months flitting between San Francisco and LA, networking with West Coast contacts and heading a long-term investigation into unsolved homicides to monitor possible supernatural activity.

He never really packed up, figuring that he'd get warning before being pulled out, but then there was that trouble in Athens and Giles promised him someone would collect his stuff eventually… stuff that Ziva is now examining in between all the restless pacing.

_You had to go and piss her off by telling her she couldn't go with you,_ he sends to Buffy. _Why is that, anyway? Thought you were impressed with her ninja skills._

There's silence for a moment, and then Buffy says quietly, _I am. But Giles got a tip just after we arrived that the Clauneck clan in this region might be connected to Camp Demon._ The nickname has stuck, though they're careful not to use it around Ziva or Kelly. Buffy sighs in frustration._ Guess some of them escaped through the portal. If that's true, and somehow word gets back to Mossad… _

_Loud and clear, Buff, _he thinks, eyeing the brunette, who has stopped her pacing and is staring at a group of photos on the wall. Xander wonders if she realises she has a hand-shaped bruise forming on her throat.

Danger and intrigue, and **smokin**' hot.

_Bad Xander_, he thinks to himself, deliberately shutting Buffy and the others out.

He averts his eyes, and when he looks back Ziva is watching him, her face unreadable. She moves toward him and for a terrified moment he wonders if he said it aloud.

"Who is this?" she asks curiously, holding out a familiar photo. Xander looks at the smiling faces and sighs, cursing Giles for not coming good on his packing promise.

"Well, that's Buffy," he stalls, but Ziva doesn't look impressed, and he's guessing she's not the kind of person who can be easily thrown off a scent so he really has no choice but to continue, "And Willow, she was one of the original Scooby Gang, and, uh…. That's Dawn."

"What is a… Scrooby gang?"

"_Scooby_. Four kids and a talking dog? Mystery Inc. Scooby Snacks. Bad guys in monster suits? '_Those meddling kids_!'" No reaction. "You never watched Scooby-Doo as a kid?" She can't be_ that_ much older than him; maybe three, four years?

"No," she says shortly, her gaze turning distant. "My father kept the television in his study, and we were not allowed to enter."

He's curious now. "No TV? What did you do for fun?"

"Oh, the usual," she says offhandedly, "Read. Study. Play _ratsach_ in the streets around our house and try not to get eliminated by the other children. Sometimes Aba would take us to the firing range and let us practice with whatever weapons he had at the time." She pauses, seeing his horrified look. "But not until I was at least nine."

Xander's pretty sure the only gun he'd ever seen at nine was of the cap variety, and even then Willow's mother took it away from them before they could test it out. He's not sure he wants to ask what 'rat-sack' means.

Ziva's parents might have just officially knocked Ma and Pa Harris from #1 on the '_Highly Questionable Parenting Techniques' _list.

Ziva studies him and without her saying a word, he knows she hasn't been thrown off the original trail and is still waiting for his explanation.

Even after a more than a year, it still hurts, the might-have-beens. There's so much about them – the Scoobies – that's broken, and all because of one desperate experiment, a foolish decision with disastrous consequences. Though if he's honest with himself, things hadn't been right since they brought Buffy back, maybe even before that.

He can still feel Ziva's eyes on him, and he wonders if she's ever thought about a career in law enforcement (he's not sure that Mossad qualify exactly, especially given what Giles suspects about her previous job specifications) because the minute he meets her gaze he kinda wants to waive his Miranda rights and spill his guts.

Except, Buffy will kill him when she finds out he's been talking about the thing they never talk about, and Ziva _probably_ won't – unless she wants to be cast out onto the street. They've managed to come to a kind of truce, he and Buffy, and while they're not back to the way they were, they're on better terms than any of the other Sunnydale originals, except maybe Faith. He doesn't want to screw with that.

"It doesn't matter," she says suddenly, turning away dismissively, "I will just ask Buffy when she gets back."

"No you won't."

She stops in her tracks at the steel in his voice and turns slowly. "Excuse me?"

"Ziva," Xander says more gently, motioning to the couch with a sigh. "Sit down. You're making me dizzy, with all the pacing." She does, though she looks slightly surprised at herself for doing so. He fumbles for a minute, trying to distract her while he finds the right words.

"Okay, I know you're not from here and all, but being a pretty kickass fighter yourself, you might've heard of 'Fight Club'? It's a – "

"Movie, starring Edward Norton and Brad Pitt. I know of it, yes," she says almost automatically, something odd twisting her voice. Her eyes suddenly spark with recognition, and Xander knows she's made the connection. It doesn't make it any easier to say it.

"Dawn is… we don't; well… Buffy doesn't talk about..."

"Fight Club." Ziva supplies, her expression thoughtful. "Very well. I will not ask Buffy."

He's not sure what makes him do it, whether it's her easy acceptance of his non-answer – as if she sees the pain there and knows not to push too hard – or the nagging sense that he _knows_ her, he's met her before, somewhere. It might just be his good friend stupidity, back for Round #356.

"Dawn was Buffy's sister," he says quietly, looking her in the eye.

Ziva stiffens at his choice of words, but doesn't interrupt as he tells the story of desperate monks and a Key and a not-really-sister who grew into a beautiful young woman before their eyes. Who, after her eighteenth birthday woke up each morning a fraction slower, a little paler, a little less herself. She'd hidden it well, but it didn't change the fact that they should have seen it.

They were all so busy with their own lives – bouncing all over the world, caught up in recruiting Slayers and Watches and Witches and building up their little empire, that almost two months passed before they realised something wasn't right.

"Giles thought that the Key part of Dawn was only meant to last for so long, and that if we could separate the two, Dawn would get better. Willow was supposed to wait until Giles had heard back from a friend in Amsterdam who was checking the specifics of the spell, to make sure it was all safe…"

_He'd found her in Dawn's room, setting up. "Did Giles give you the green light?" he'd asked stupidly, not understanding why Buffy wasn't there. He'd just seen the blonde Slayer, and she hadn't said anything about doing the spell, just that she'd be up soon to sit with Dawn for awhile._

_Willow avoided his eyes and his stomach sank. "Don't do it," he said shortly, raising her chin so she had no choice but to look at him. "Not until Professor VanHeusen says it's all good. You don't know what will happen."_

_Her eyes lit up then. "Oh, but you forgot the part where I do!" she'd said, breaking from his grasp and practically bouncing. "See, I tried the spell on one of the dummies in the gym. I used Marvin, cause he's about Dawn's size." The Devon coven had created practice dummies for the training Slayers that moved almost like real people, and could be altered with a simple spell to grow, shrink, grow extra arms or teeth. _

'_Made to order demon-bots', Xander had joked when they arrived. He didn't know how they worked exactly, but while they moved and fought and maybe even thought (or at least responded to blows and movements), they weren't…._

_Willow was still babbling, something she'd never quite outgrown – though it was usually less frequent now. "So, I put the fake 'Key' in – which was __**way**__ fun – and made him as close to human as I could. Then I followed the spell exactly, and whizz! Out came the Key," she held out her hand to show him a little sphere of light, "and with no ill-effects to Marvin at all!"_

"_Except for the fact that he's a magically animated, inanimate object, and Dawn is a human," Xander said pointedly, willing her to get the difference. "One of these things is not like the other one." Quoting nursery songs. Genius, thy name is not Xander Lavelle Harris._

_Willow sighed, but nodded her head. "'Kay," she muttered, like a child who's been ordered to bed. "I'll wait." Dawn shifted in her bed, the first movement in hours, and Xander watched as Willow rushed over to her, brushing the hair from her face. "We're running out of time, Xander. VanHeusen better get his supreme warlock butt into high gear."_

"_Promise me, Willow."_

_And she'd promised; crossed her heart and hoped to die, and stupidly, __**blindly**__, he'd believed her, back when they were still a little giddy with the knowledge that they had changed the world and were now helping to really make that change mean something._

"The next time I saw Dawn," he says heavily, unable to meet Ziva's stormy gaze, "she wasn't Dawn any more. She was… Giles had to…" He breathes deeply, and a tear slips down Ziva's cheek. She doesn't move, and he wonders if she even felt it.

"Buffy couldn't do it, couldn't kill her. Willow did the spell as soon as I left the room, and she got the Key out, but maybe Dawn wasn't meant to be anything but the Key, because what was left…" He can't say it.

"I am sorry." Ziva says softly, and he looks up in surprise. She's struggling with the words, and she mouths a few words that are distinctly not English before continuing, as if her internal translator is on the fritz. "I would not have pushed if I… I did not realise that…"

"Don't sweat it." he says with a lightness he really doesn't feel. "If you plan to stick around for awhile, it's probably something you needed to hear." Better him than Buffy.

They sit in heavy choking silence as Xander swallows hard and Ziva swipes angrily at her face. He tries to think of a joke, but he can't remember any of the punchlines. _What good is telling a story if you don't know how it ends_, he thinks, and wonders when he got so jaded.

Xander looks at his watch and is surprised to see that it's almost 0200.

_Buff,_ he thinks quickly, cursing himself for getting carried away. _You girls almost done with the carnage? Got a magic minibus to catch, y'know. _Too peppy, he groans to himself, praying she won't notice.

Buffy's voice crackles into life inside his head. _Peachy with a side of… well, slime. Giles left out the 'ick' factor of these guys. Remind me to thank him for that when we get back. Hard._ But he can tell she's smiling, possibly a result of adrenaline from the fight, so he doesn't comment. _See you in ten. It would be five, but we're making a pit stop at Burger King. You want?_

He relays the question to Ziva, who shakes her head mutely. _All good on this end._

Ziva's gone back to rearranging the magazines, and he thinks bitterly that his last words to Buffy couldn't be any further from the truth. He looks away into the dim kitchen, and wonders if he should start packing up the stuff he actually wants.

"Got any siblings, Ziva?"

She hesitates, her hand going to her neck and dropping quickly back into her lap when she finds only bare skin. "I once had a brother and a sister." She rubs her hands together as if she's cold, and the words trickle out slowly as though she's forcing them through a swollen throat.

"Tali was killed by a suicide bomber when she was 16. Ari was… Ari is also dead."

Her voice breaks on their names, and it hits him like ice water on hot summer skin. He couldn't figure out why she was so familiar before, when she first turned up at the apartment, laughing and joking with Buffy and the others about her first field kill. It's the first time they've met that she's been conscious. Now he's starting to get it, watching the air of almost-hidden sadness descend over her slight form like a blanket. The names of those she's loved and lost crack in the middle as they fall from her tongue (he senses there's more to that story, but they're both exhausted enough for one night), just like Buffy's voice the few times she's spoken of Dawn.

The front door slams and voices trickle like sunshine into the room. He's familiar with the post-Slayage high, though he usually only has one Slayer to deal with at a time. It never fails to make him smile at the irony of it, the enthusiasm and rush the younger girls get from doing something that would horrify your Average Joe. Even the GI kind.

"Zee, I know you said you didn't want anything, but you're still way too skinny, so we got you a burger. And you're gonna eat it, or I'll put slime in your bed. We got some to take back for Giles." Caitlin says brightly, throwing it to her deftly.

For a minute Ziva looks like she's on the verge of refusing, but she just shrugs and peels off the wrapper as the younger Slayers resume their chattering.

Buffy sinks onto the couch next to Ziva. "I'm beat. Maybe we can come back some other time and ride the cable car?" She brushes ropy blue gunk from her shoulder with a shudder, and Ziva touches it curiously, backing off quickly when Buffy grins and waves her slimy hand near the other woman's hair.

He tunes out Ziva's response, casting his eye around the apartment and realising he already has the one thing he might take with him.

He tucks the photo into his pocket and watches them laugh and tease each other, and hopes that Ziva – all stormy eyes and wild hair and distinct air of danger – can do for Buffy what they (even the other Slayers) cannot: let her know that she's not _quite_ so alone in the world.

* * *

_'Ratsach' is a Hebrew word, that loosely translated (as far as I can tell from Google) means 'murderer', or 'assassin'. It makes me smile and cringe simultaneously to think of a hoarde of mini-Mossad kids running around the streets pretending to shoot each other._

As always, thanks for reading!


	8. Ashes to Ashes

_**A/N:**__I think I'm too impatient for my own good. So many of you have been begging for this bit that I ended up splitting my chapter in half, because Part 2 stubbornly refuses to be anything other than completely crap and I'm mucho frustrated. (Also have 3,000 word essay due Monday and zilch written, eep!) Hence the shortness (?)_

So, you get half now, and half later, probably tomorrow, if my levels of essay procrastination remain this high. In between the two F's (facebook and fic), it's highly unlikely that I'll ever get anything done. *facepalm* Enjoy!

Refers to NCIS episodes 'Trojan Horse' (where the team set up a betting pool wagering how long Gibbs would last as temporary Director before investigating a case) and 'Iceman' (explanation at bottom)

* * *

_Monday, 1000_

_NCIS, Navy Yard, Washington DC_

Gibbs leans on the rail of the catwalk outside MTAC and watches what's left of his team working below him.

Truth be told, he misses the McNicknames and bickering, and pranks that he pretends to be scornful of but sometimes has to bite his lip to keep from smiling at. He even misses deliberately ignoring David and Dinozzo's sexually charged banter. Anything but the silence that resonates in the bullpen.

He whistles piercingly and heads pop up from all around the squadroom.

"Agent Ripley," he barks, and the named man, stocky and balding with a mouth too small for his wide face, takes a hesitant step back. A useless move, like turning your back on a cobra and hoping it will lose interest and slide away.

"Director Gibbs. Uh, Temporary Director Gibbs."

"Agent Gibbs will do fine. What's the status of the pool?"

Ripley pales under the fluorescent light as the other agents shift and murmur to each other. Tony almost cracks a smile. You'd think they'd learnt their lesson the last time. Gibbs _always_ knows.

"Ripley!"

"Uh, well… Last count, it's $175, sir. Am I to understand that…"

"Don't call me sir. Eight days, three hours and sixteen minutes. Winner is to be paid out in full and records shredded by 1100, or I confiscate the whole pot. Understood?" Gibbs says dryly.

DiNozzo and McGee are already halfway to the elevator – gear in hand – without even having to hear the familiar command.

Whoever bet he'd last eight days or more before going out to work a case was betting on a long-shot, so he'll overlook the new rule that prohibits organised gambling – specifically betting pools – on the premises. Gibbs fights the urge to slap every single head in the place for their mostly unsuccessful attempts at looking surprised. Of course he knew.

A pair of clowns from what Tony calls the 'Minor Crooks Relaxation Team' – just over the other side of the divider but in a whole different world – high-five each other gleefully. Sometimes Gibbs wonders if NCIS is lowering their employment standards on purpose, just to piss him off.

"Where we headed, Boss?" McGee asks as the doors close and the elevator begins to descend. Thinking of employment reminds him of the empty desk in their part of the bullpen. Despite all his huffing and puffing shortly before they got the news, about Gibbs needing to choose a new agent, Vance has not pushed the subject.

Yet.

Of course, it helps immensely that the Director is in Europe, attending the same conference his predecessor did more than a year ago. Ostensibly. According to Abby, Vance not only stayed in an extra day in Tel Aviv after the funeral, but is flying home to Washington via Israel. Not exactly a logical stopover.

"Boss?"

He snaps back to reality, realising that somehow they've made it downstairs to the MCRT van and both of his agents are waiting for him to exit the elevator.

"Rock Creek Park, just beyond the Western Ridge Trail. Local LEO's are securing the scene. They're waiting for us on Grant." The detective who called him, Richardson, sounded spooked on the phone. Gibbs finds himself wondering why.

He doesn't challenge Tony when he jumps into the drivers seat and guns the engine, just waits for McGee to clamber awkwardly into the middle and then follows, slamming the door. He doesn't miss the glance they exchange either, just chooses to ignore it.

"You waiting for the green flag, DiNozzo? _Drive_!"

* * *

_Monday, 1019_

_Rock Creek Park, Washington DC_

It's been eight days since Tony knelt before Ziva's coffin and said the words he never got the chance to say to her in life. _I miss you. I'm sorry. I love you. _The last had slipped unbidden from his lips, surprising him enough to give him the strength to stand and take the shovel. Eight days later, the words still rattle around in his head, popping up at the most inconvenient times.

Like right now, in the middle of the crime scene. The body (Lt Bronwyn Sachs, according to her ID) was found at 0930 by a jogger who was caught short in the middle of his workout and ducked into the trees to take a leak. He'll think twice before stepping off the path in future. It's dark and damp in this part of the forest, the atmosphere gloomy from the lack of light.

"All I seen from my spot in the trees over there," he points, "was her back. Thought she was sleeping at first," the man – Harrison, '_call me Harry'_ – says to Gibbs. Despite his muscular frame and bulldog-like face, his voice is shaded with a hint of hysteria and his hands jump and twitch nervously like caged butterflies.

"Stupid, huh? Then I got closer and realised she wasn't breathing and I damn near shat myself. TV ain't got nothin' on the real deal, man. You boys CSI?"

Gibbs doesn't bother to correct him, just watches like a hawk as he rambles and blusters and pointedly looks anywhere but in the direction of the body. Tony already knows that Harry won't be coming back with them to the Yard – this is not their guy.

He's meant to be taking photos of the crime scene, but the whirr of the shutter (damn Gibbs and his refusal to go fully digital) sounds like _ziva__ ziva ziva_. He can't tear his eyes from the dark curls that frame the blank blood-bleached face. Someone's daughter sister lover, lying curled at his feet like a question, twin puncture wounds marring her alabaster neck.

"McGee!" Gibbs barks gruffly from behind him, making him jump, "Crime scene photos." The junior agent protests from his position somewhere within the line of trees bordering this part of the park, and Tony can almost feel Gibbs's glare radiate into the leafy expanse, parting the low branches with its force.

Gibbs's hand connects with the back of his head, and Tony fumbles the camera as he passes it off to McGee. "Go help Palmer with the gurney," he says – orders – but Tony hears the sympathy pulse under the words and that makes him more eager to flee than he's ever been in his life.

Sympathy, from Gibbs? The sky is falling.

He looks up to check, and his eye catches something dangling from one of the branches.

"Boss," he says sharply as birds sing and the fake-shutter sound whirrs (_ziva ziva_), treading carefully through the muck on the ground and cursing his decision to wear the Armani as mud and god knows what else splashes up onto his trousers.

"Bag it, DiNozzo." Gibbs says impatiently, turning his attention to Ducky. "Time of death, Duck?" Ducky calculates aloud as Tony uses a stick (not exactly the best crime scene retrieval tool, but it gets the job done) to levy down the bundle of hair and twigs and...oh.

An eyeball slides from the bundle and slimes its way down his leg. Tony grabs at it with a gloved hand. "Fucking brilliant," he mutters to himself, sealing it in an evidence jar and wondering if he still has that spare set of pants in the truck.

"Hey, Ducky, you missing something over there?" he calls out, holding up his prize. The medical examiner peels back pale lids and shakes his head.

"You find one, or two?" McGee says oddly from somewhere to Tony's left.

"You looking for an upgrade, McTwenty/Twenty?" Tony snarks more out of habit than out of a desire to actually make anyone laugh, looking around for McGee.

"No, Tony," McGee says slowly as if talking to a child, "But I think this guy over here might be." Hearing that, Tony squeezes the bundle in his hand involuntarily, and the other eyeball shoots through his fingers like a greased grape and almost pops him in the face.

Sometimes he wonders why he bothers to get out of bed.

* * *

_Monday, 1345_

_Navy Yard, Washington DC_

Ducky has seen a lot of death in his life, more than he ever thought he would when he sat in his first Anatomy class, bleary-eyed from the previous night's welcome drinks like almost everyone around him, thinking '_Someday I might use this information to save a life.' _

Death – cause, motive, means – is his gift, and at NCIS there's no shortage of wrapping paper. Being a medical examiner is like an adult game of Pass the Parcel. The music always stops on him; and he spends his life peeling back the layers in search of the prize.

He stands between the bodies, gowned and gloved and frowning.

Two seemingly unrelated deaths, joined only by the tenuous threads of same time same place. The time of death for each is minutes apart, the victims themselves as different as night and day. One a decorated Navy Lieutenant, the other a homeless man, a drifter with no apparent ties to the first.

After so many years working with Jethro, Ducky shares his feelings about coincidences. Abby is busy analysing samples and cataloguing evidence, and he assumes that Tony and Timothy are upstairs looking for leads that might connect the two. Jethro is…

"Whaddya got for me, Duck?"

Right behind him, striding through the double doors – solid muscle on silent feet. Perhaps he'll take Abby's suggestion and buy his old friend a bell for his birthday.

"Would you prefer my medical opinion or my speculative and somewhat unbelievable theories?" Ducky asks wryly, and smiles to himself when Gibbs visibly fights not to roll his eyes. He moves to the wall where x-rays blaze their undeniable truth through the room.

"Our Lieutenant's eventual death occurred when a rather strong assailant forcibly and quite literally wrenched her spinal column apart, the result perhaps of an anti-clockwise twist to her head." He points at the spots on the x-ray as Jethro nods, waiting for the inevitable 'but' that he senses is to follow.

"However, infinitely more mystifying is what I found in the rest of her body – or more to the point, failed to find."

"Gonna get to this point anytime soon?" Gibbs asks impatiently but not unkindly.

"Blood, Jethro, or curious lack of it. The average human body usually contains 5.3 quarts of blood – 10 pints if you wish to use imperial estimates – approximately 7% of a person's total body weight," _A pint of pure water weighs a pound and a quarter,_ Ducky thinks, and the voice sounds curiously like his third form teacher, but he doubts Jethro would be interested.

"Conveniently, Lt Sachs recently returned from medical leave – a torn tendon in her knee required minor surgery – and two days ago underwent a thorough physical to ensure she was fit to return to full duties."

"Physicals still include stepping on the scales, Duck?"

"Indeed they do. Her weight at the time was 120 pounds, acceptable given her diminutive stature. Her current weight is 113 pounds, suggesting that either our Lieutenant lost seven pounds in just under two days, or given the colour of her organs and soft tissue, was very near completely drained of blood. If I might hazard a guess, I would say that the puncture wounds on her neck are the exit point."

Gibbs blows out a frustrated breath. "So, Sachs was attacked by someone strong enough to damn near rip her head off with a single twist; an attacker who first cut her neck and somehow drained her blood _without_ leaving a pool of it at the crime scene."

Ducky nods his agreement and this time Gibbs doesn't bother to hide the eye-roll.

"What's next, Duck? Should I send McGee out to Shady Rest with a garlic necklace and a crucifix to hunt for potential suspects?"

"A world of no," an amused voice echoes from behind them, and both men spin and stare at the small blonde woman leaning casually against the door frame. She glances briefly at the bodies laid out on the slabs, her eyes lingering on the body of the unidentified drifter.

"Nasty piece of work, those Puporea demons. Nothing says _you're gonna die_ like a twelve inch fingernail through your eye." Her eyes turn stormy, but the expression vanishes in a blink.

Gibbs sputters at the stranger in indignation, fixing her with his best 'be very afraid' glare. To Ducky's surprise, she just snorts and walks – _stalks _– forward, eyeing Gibbs like he's an unlit bomb fuse and she's just blown out the last match in the world.

Ducky has to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning. She catches his eye and her mouth twitches almost imperceptibly, as if she's holding back a smirk. She fronts right up to Gibbs and offers her hand.

"Buffy Summers, ICWS. Please don't send Maggie _anywhere_ with a garlic necklace – the only thing that's going to protect her from is the possibility of getting a date in this lifetime. And you are?" Ducky has a feeling she already knows the answer and the question is just for show.

"Gibbs," the aforementioned offers simply, looking as though he's torn between interrogating Miss Summers and snorting with laughter at her words. Maggie, indeed.

Ducky prepares himself for her inevitable wince at Gibbs's firm assertion of exactly _who_ is in charge here. To his astonishment, she doesn't flinch, though Gibbs draws his hand back and flexes it subtly, surprise etched in the grooves around his eyes.

He tilts his head in Ducky's direction. "Dr Mallard, NCIS Medical Examiner."

"Ducky," he supplies amiably, shaking her hand and hiding his surprise at her wholly unremarkable grip. "I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the term 'Purporea', may I ask – "

Her hazel eyes suddenly dart behind him and she curses under her breath in a language that Ducky doesn't recognise. Without warning she grips his upper arm and literally shoves him aside, though her steadying hand stops him from crashing into Jethro.

They turn as one and freeze, blinking in disbelief. "Duck," Gibbs says quietly as they watch Buffy duck and swing and kick with inhuman grace, "You check _this_ one was actually dead?"

Ducky nods jerkily, too stunned to form a response as he watches the blonde land a savage blow to Lt Sachs's nose, the Y-incision pulling as the Lt crashes into the steel table. This isn't the first time someone has come to life on Ducky's table, though when Corporal O'Neill opened _his_ eyes they were stunned, but a normal blue, not yellow and undeniably hungry.

Gibbs mutters something too low for Ducky to make out, but he hears the word 'gun' and can fill in the gaps.

"Won't help," Buffy says from the other side of the room as she ducks out of range of a vicious backhand, and Gibbs's head shoots up at the sound of her voice. "Plus, all this metal plus my crappy luck equals Buffy probably getting shot instead, and that's an experience I'm not keen to repeat."

She rocks back from the force of a kick and neatly flips onto the table, catching the Lieutenant…_thing_… in the jaw. Flicking her wrist oddly, she lands like a cat in front of the table and extends her palm as if to simply push the creature away.

There's silence, as Buffy brushes herself off and Gibbs and Ducky blink in shock.

"Tony," McGee says suspiciously from the doorway (they'll **all** be getting bells for Christmas this year), "Did you put something in my coffee, because I swear I just saw our murder victim turn to dust."

* * *

_And now I'm all twitchy and nervous, thinking about the amount of people who were looking forward to the Buffy v Gibbs moment. Eep! For the record, it's quite hard to find information about the length of time one has to be dead before rising as a vamp. I'm exercising my right to take creative liberties with that one ;)_

In the episode 'Iceman': a frozen body (Corporal O'Neill) is brought into Ducky's morgue for autopsy, and much to Ducky's surprise wakes up just before the first cut.

Next chapter: Ziva meets the other legend, Willow gets a chance to tell *her* side of the story (sort of), and Buffy has some serious 'splainin' to do... and as it turns out, so does Ziva


	9. Leprechauns and LionHeadedDragonGoats

_The first two scenes happen pretty much concurrently, but obviously the given times are local (or as close to as possible)._

* * *

_Monday, 1915_

_JC Academy, England_

Ziva watches the activity below somewhat distractedly from her spot among the branches, her face aglow in the fading daylight. She's lost count of how long she's been sitting up in the tree, trying to work out how the hell she's going to fix the mess that she's in.

Below her, twilight lessons are in full swing. Slayers dance across the grass with deadly fluid grace, occasionally pausing to look up into the tree curiously but on the whole not bothered by her presence. After a week of seeing her in various places around the school, usually in the company of one of the Scoobies or the perpetually-smiling Caitlin, they recognise that she's not a threat even if they're not entirely sure why she's there.

Truth be told, there are days when she's not sure why herself, except that for the moment she's got nowhere else to go. Mossad are more likely to shoot her on sight than throw her a welcome back parade, though from what Giles has said they've all but given up pressing ICWS for details of their part of the African op.

Whether that's a good thing or not, Ziva hasn't quite decided.

Like an alligator; Mossad – and in particular her father – are usually at their most dangerous when they disappear beneath the surface of the river. You never know what you'll find when you dare to swim out into the water.

After the way she left things with Gibbs and… everyone… at NCIS, well, there's a reason you don't burn your chickens, or count your bridges, or however the saying goes. As easy as it would be to slide into Buffy's world and never go back, there are things that need to be fixed in Washington, good, kind, people that she has blamed and broken and left without explanation or apology.

She's had a lot of time to think about what happened in her last days in America, and though there's still some anger and hurt there, it's a more of a slow bubbling simmer than a burning fire.

Mostly, she's terrified of what she'll find when she finally gets up the nerve to make contact, and the unexpected level of her emotion only serves to remind her of just what the ragtag group of agents and others – Abby, Ducky, even Palmer – have come to mean to her over the past four years.

If Buffy and the others sense this – and Ziva's learnt over the past week that these people are nothing if not perceptive – they seem willing to give her the space she needs to work it out in her head. Other than Xander asking about her family the other night in San Francisco, they've mostly left the topic alone, and in turn she's kept her knowledge about Dawn to herself.

Caitlin, in her innocent Abby-ish way, tried to pry some details out of her about her life before Africa, but gave up quickly when she saw the look on Ziva's face (and, Ziva suspects, the warning she got when Xander overheard her attempts at questioning).

Ziva might have to give the younger girl some interrogation tips, perhaps when the wounds from her own (healed but still not forgotten) have faded a little.

She's barely seen Buffy since they got back from San Francisco – almost the minute they arrived back in the entrance foyer of the school (smack bang in the middle of 200-odd starving Slayers fighting their way through the double doors to get their dinner, which was a sight to be seen), Buffy had been summoned to Giles's office.

"Director Giles promised me a tenner and a week of unrestricted TV privileges if I put 'the fear of God' into you about not dawdling this time,' Ang, a petite Chinese slayer, had said cheekily to Buffy in a low voice when the crowd had thinned.

Buffy had smiled a dangerous-looking smile and whispered something in the teen's ear, something that Ziva strongly suspected was the bag of Clauneck slime changing hands in the blink of an eye. Buffy had disappeared down one of the many corridors, the little slayer hot on her heels in anticipation of collecting her prize.

Shortly after, Buffy had stopped by Ziva's room, overnight bag slung over her shoulder, to tell her she'd be away for a couple of days, sorting out a 'situation,' which Ziva has learnt is a kind of unofficial code for 'demon trouble in x city, Slayer required for beating and/or beheading'.

From her not-really-hiding-place in the tree, she sees Ang pick up a sword almost twice as long as her armspan and twirl it expertly despite its size, blocking and parrying with vicious thrusts against one of the Scandinavian slayers (Brigitte, maybe, or is it Nissa? There are just _so_ many girls), who curses in her native language and returns the blows with similar ease.

Neither of them are much older than fourteen, and Brigitte is wearing pink nail polish and a shirt with some kind of furry animal on it, Ziva can't see what from this distance. It seems such an odd tableau in the light of day, sparkly pink-tipped fingers wrapped around a glinting broadsword.

Ziva still isn't quite used to the sight of young girls fighting each other as if their lives depended on it.

_Before we changed the rules, there was just one slayer called at a time,_ Buffy had explained during Ziva's first days at the Academy, when she'd commented on how young some of the girls were. _Things are… easier… now. The girls don't go on active duty until they're at least 17, and when they do they've got a whole team of people to back them up – Watchers, witches, other actives – the works. And there's always someone to take their place if they need a night off, or a holiday, or if they want to go away to school, well, no big. We're pretty flexible. The slayer doesn't walk alone anymore. _

Raised teenage voices in a variety of accents slice through her distracted musing, and Ziva glances down to see a vaguely-human sized blur moving quickly across the wet grass. The slayers have parted like the Dead Sea and stand watching and chattering curiously as Caitlin whirls on the spot, frowns and shouts something indistinct before heading Ziva's way equally swiftly.

As gracefully as one can while perched on a tree branch, Ziva turns, half expecting to see some kind of demon behind her with claws or teeth or paralysing nose mucus (Buffy suggested she ask Giles about Fyarl demons, much to everyone's amusement) ready to strike.

Nothing.

She doesn't even get the chance to turn back around before the branch quivers and strong arms wrap around her body, pinning her in place and pushing all the air from her lungs with a painful squeeze. Cold steel bites into her throat, not quite hard enough to draw blood, but the intent is clear.

"Don't much like sneaky people," a brash voice drawls silkily into Ziva's ear as she fights to breathe, "Wanna tell me what the hell you're doin' here?"

"Faith, don't!" Caitlin shouts from below, and before Ziva can choke out a reply or look down the blonde appears on the branch opposite them, her eyes wide and her hands out in the universal 'stop' gesture. She shoots an apologetic look at Ziva. "Sorry, Ziva," she says, shifting her eyes to glare at a spot just over her left shoulder and groaning.

"Oh, Buffy's gonna be so freakin' mad when she hears about this. Faith, can you let her go already?"

_Faith_, Ziva thinks, connecting the name with the legend even as the knife at her neck disappears. Said legend's iron grip releases just enough so that she can breathe again, yet not quite enough for her to get free altogether. She struggles in the loose hold, hanging over the edge of the branch, and Faith gives her a little squeeze as if to say _I don't quite trust you_.

This time the voice is softer, but still a little wary. "Don't be an idiot. If I let you go, you're gonna fall. You want that?" Ziva starts to shake her head, then changes her mind and nods (to hell with it), and Faith lets out a bark of surprised laughter and whips her arms away.

Ziva only just barely manages to land on her feet, her centre of gravity all off-kilter thanks to the awkward angle, but she's just thankful she didn't land on her head. Beside her Caitlin lands lightly like a cat, her face red from anger or embarrassment, Ziva can't quite tell which.

"Sorry," Caitlin says quietly, "Faith can be a little… overprotective when she thinks one of us is in danger."

Ziva just nods, thinking of guards and guns and the horror she felt when she'd seen Tony take a blow to the face and go down like a sack of potatoes. Can't fault _that_ reflex.

The younger slayers cheer and Ziva glances up as Faith stands on tiptoe, bows and then throws herself off the branch backwards in a neat double somersault, landing solidly and then oddly, stumbling just a little. The wink she throws Ziva seems to indicate that the stumble was intentional, perhaps a way to make the non-Slayer look less clumsy.

"Next show's at eight, also known as 'Advanced Weapons Training, Faith Style'" she says loudly to the crowd, who groan at what is obviously a private joke. "Until then, go do whatever teenage girls do when they're not out beatin' sh…stuff up."

Faith eyes Caitlin meaningfully, but the blonde girl sets her jaw stubbornly and glares at the older slayer. "You've been hangin' out here with Buffy way too long, Little C. Look at you, all grown up and playing at being feisty." Caitlin grins, and Faith turns her attention to Ziva, studying her intently like a bug under a microscope.

Ziva finds herself having to fight not to squirm under the sharp-eyed gaze of the other legendary slayer. Dressed in black combat pants and a tight red tank, Faith's all brash attitude, wild hair and eyeliner and, like Buffy, you can practically see the power rolling off her in waves.

Ziva wonders how many of the whispers among the students are truth and how many are the product of overactive teenage imagination. She's heard parts of a very interesting story about a fifteen foot alligator and a busload of nuns (or was it priests?) that she makes a note to ask about later.

"How'd you know I wasn't gonna drop you on your ass?" Faith asks after a long uncomfortable moment. Ziva just shrugs, because quite honestly she didn't but she's not about to admit it.

You don't show weakness unless you're certain you can trust the person you're showing, and her aching ribs tell her to reserve judgement for the time being.

"Beggar's luck," Ziva says instead, and the way both Slayers look at her means she's gotten the phrase wrong, but she continues regardless, forcing a puzzled expression onto her face.

"I expected you to be… different. The way the others talk about you, I thought you would be..." Ziva trails off and waves her hands vaguely as if she can't find the words. Caitlin watches it all unfold with dancing eyes, thankfully not commenting on the exchange.

Faith looks interested now, leaning forward curiously. Game on. "Older? Hotter? Don't keep a girl hanging…"

"Well, for one thing, I had thought you would be a little more intimidating, perhaps taller, yes?" Faith looks taken aback but not angry, so Ziva decides to push a little further. "Also, ah, there was some mention of your sense of style and yet…" Again, she waves her hands as if to indicate the opposite is true, and Faith practically puffs up with indignation.

Making Faith bristle is almost easier than making Palmer nervous.

"You can take your thoughts and stick them up your – damn, that was nicely done." Faith says suspiciously, frowning and studying Ziva's teasing expression, her own mouth quickly widening into a grin. She waves a hand in the direction of the school, and they start walking across the damp grass. Faith shoots Ziva a sidelong glance that's part impressed, part curious, and Ziva wonders what she's been told.

"You know what, ninja-girl? I think we're gonna get along just fine."

_

* * *

_

_Monday, 1415_

_NCIS, Washington DC_

"Demons are real."

"Yup."

"Vampires are real."

"Uh-huh."

Pause.

"Leprechauns?"

Summers appears to consider it as McGee and Ducky grin in tandem, their teeth bright in the blue light of the halted elevator. "Not that I know of," she says finally, leaning back against the steel wall and surveying the tight space with distaste. "Speaking of pots of gold… Phil wouldn't shell out for a _real_ conference room, huh?"

Tony watches her and tries to figure out why she seems so curiously familiar. He's really hoping that if he's seen her before it was at a coffee shop or in Baltimore or even at the supermarket, and that – if they've met – they were both sober and fully clothed and _not_ horizontal.

Buffy Summers. He's pretty sure he'd remember a name like that, but… their faces blurred after awhile, and he lost track of the times he let women down – both gently and not so.

Flash a winning DiNozzo smile (#8 had the best success rate), buy the drinks and sweep them off their feet. Nights of soft flesh and sweaty skin and nameless moans (that way there's no chance of saying the wrong one). Afterward, an easy escape through dark silent rooms – shirt untucked and hair mussed and once, out the window butt-naked when an unmentioned husband came home unexpectedly early. It was that, or fumbling through the awkward morning moment when they offered breakfast and he offered '_no thanks, gotta run'_. Ghosts from the past.

_Sorry, honey_, he thinks suddenly and a little hysterically, _It's not you, it's me. Please don't tear off my arm and beat me with it_.

Down in Autopsy, Summers fought like nothing he'd ever seen before, and her grip when they were introduced (after what she called the obligatory '_stunned fish'_ time was over) was like shaking hands with the Terminator. As if that's not mystery enough, at the tender age of – Tony's guessing 26, maybe 27 – she works for an agency that's even less known than NCIS, and is apparently on a first name basis with the Secretary of the Navy.

Beside him, Gibbs mirrors her casual pose against the wall, his eyes fixed on her sceptically. If he hadn't just seen a dead woman come to life and then explode in a cloud of dust, Tony wouldn't believe a word of it. He's still not entirely sure that this isn't some kind of elaborate hoax, but everyone who would be game enough to pull it off is in the elevator listening to a blonde Californian woman talk matter-of-factly about things that belong in B-grade horror movies.

"Lion-headed-dragon-goats?" he asks suddenly, remembering rats and mystery boats and a conversation that he dismissed as '_woo-woo'_ at the time. Now he finds himself wondering if _she_ knew all along about the existence of a whole other world of evil beyond what men – humans, if he's being politically correct – can do. McGee shoots him a look that tells Tony the junior agent didn't miss the reference, and he thinks about making a 'McSeasick' crack but can't muster the energy for the façade right now.

He doesn't get a response anyway, just an odd stare from the ICWS agent, and he's not sure he really was asking a question anyway so it doesn't matter.

They stand in awkward enclosed silence for a minute, then suddenly Gibbs punches at the button and the elevator shudders and ascends. "Conference room in 10," he half-growls at them as the doors open and he stalks out ahead. He turns back after a few steps and lifts an eyebrow. "Coffee, Ms Summers?"

She winces. "If you're really gonna insist on formality, Agent Summers will do at a pinch. Otherwise, Buffy's fine. " Gibbs doesn't move or alter his expression, and Buffy just sighs as if she's used to this kind of power play.

"If you're asking whether I want the finest thrice-boiled instant motor oil the Navy has to offer, a resounding no. On the other hand, if you've got an actual coffee shop somewhere 'round here, I might change my story." She rotates her head gingerly, stretching out her neck, and Gibbs's eyes soften a little.

"My dear, are you injured?" Ducky says in a low voice as the squadroom noise buzzes around them. He reaches out to touch Buffy on the arm and pulls his hand back as if bitten when she flinches away from him.

"Sorry," she says sheepishly a split second later, "Caught a claw in the arm last night, and it hasn't quite healed yet. Agent Gibbs, I might take you up…" She turns and snorts in surprise at the empty space.

"Is he always so…"

"Yep," McGee supplies easily as they move toward the conference room, and Buffy's laugh echoes through the bullpen. _Our little Probie's all grown up and not afraid of the Big Bad Blonde_, Tony thinks, and wonders when that happened.

Agents turn to stare at the stranger and she falls in beside Tony and says under her breath "You'd tell me if I had vamp dust in my hair, right?" He can't get over her ease with it all, talking about vampires in a tone that would be more suited to discussing what she's going to have for dinner, and he just stares at her, unable to respond.

Her hazel eyes meet his green, and he realises for the first time that he's not the only one who has a knack for lightening the mood in a room. Danger lurks beneath the peppy Valleygirl façade, and there's a storm brewing in her eyes (damn, he really needs to stop watching those Spanish soap operas before he turns into… McGemcity, Mark II).

"So, uh, Buffy… you live around here?" She shakes her head and he mentally crosses that off on the list with a little bit of relief.

"Ever been to Baltimore?"

* * *

_Thanks ever so much to those of you who take the time to review - you make my day :)_


	10. The Webs We Weave

_**A/N:** Two chapters in one day... mainly because I completely forgot to post the first one yesterday amongst the chaos of posting to various other sites, mainly Twisting the Hellmouth, which is the place to go for lots and lots of BtVS crossover fiction (and non-crossover stuff as well). Not that isn't awesome, because it is, but there's such a LOT of fic on the site that it can be hard to find what you want._

_I'll still continue to post 'Lost' here for those of you that are reading (and I know you're out there), but if you're looking for little spoilers or have questions, TTH is the place to look as review replies can be viewed by everyone, and I tend to give hints/explanations away in them. You don't even have to review to read them. :)_

* * *

_Monday, 1445_

_NCIS Headquarters, Washington DC _

McGee watches Ms Summers – _Buffy_ – sit at the conference table casually, alternating between making small talk with the agents and tapping out messages (or maybe emails) on her cell phone. If he hadn't heard the words 'demon' and 'vampire' come out of her mouth not even half an hour ago he would have thought she was making plans to meet her friends at the mall once she was done with all the questions. _Who knows_, he thinks, _maybe she still is_.

Whoever coined the term 'appearances can be deceiving' might have been thinking specifically of a diminutive blonde woman who – once the dust has settled and the slightly feral light has died from her eyes – appears to be the epitome of all the cheerleader types he'd ever stammered at in high school, unless you look too closely.

Buffy strikes him as being an expert at playing the ditsy Californian girl until she needs to be something more. When she's not actively involved in their conversation she drops the mask briefly at times and her eyes are older and far wiser than her years. She's a lot like Tony, actually – their pain and regret hidden behind a cheery smile and peppy tone. Tony's not so good at hiding it anymore, not since…

McGee wonders if he ever thanked Ziva for curing him of his nervousness around dangerous women while he had the chance.

Behind him, the door open suddenly and he turns as an older man with glasses and greying hair enters the conference room. Buffy looks up from her cell phone and smiles in recognition, beckoning him over to the empty seat next to her. He nods at her in return, offering his hand to McGee and Tony in turn.

"Rupert Giles. My apologies for keeping you waiting, but we had something of a… situation… back at the office."

Buffy's brow creases as he sits down. "I'm really hoping that when you say 'situation,' you mean that the Sl… _girls_ staged a kitchen raid again," she says cautiously with a raised eyebrow. He levels an unreadable look at her and she sighs, rolling her eyes in a very Gibbs-like manner. "But of course that's not what you mean, because that would be **way **too normal."

McGee watches as they look at each other for a long minute, almost like they're having a conversation without words. After awhile, Buffy shrugs and Mr Giles turns to Ducky and asks him to describe the positioning and state of the bodies.

He wonders where Gibbs is, and just as he thinks the words, the door flies open and Gibbs strides in with a tray of coffee cups (_real_ coffee, not sludge from the percolator) and starts handing them out like it's Christmas and he's a Santa Claus.

If Santa was less '_ho ho ho'_ and more '_bah, humbug_,' that is.

Mr Giles accepts the coffee and stands, offering his hand to Gibbs. "Rupert Giles, Director of ICWS. I would say it's a pleasure, but you might want to hear us out first and then decide how you feel about it. I assume you are Special Agent Gibbs?"

Gibbs just nods and they sit, Mr Giles adjusting his glasses as he surveys the crime scene photos. Gibbs peers over the table and shoots an annoyed look at McGee as he realises what the folder contains. From his left, Tony slides an identical folder across to Gibbs but instead of opening it their boss just folds his hands on top of the cardboard and fixes the ICWS representatives with a typical Gibbs-stare.

"Who called you?" he asks bluntly, and Buffy looks up sharply.

"Detective Richardson. We have an… unspoken arrangement with many of the local law enforcement agencies, and not just the American ones. They call ICWS when they find something wiggy, we save their asses occasionally when they run into things they can't kill with guns. Sometimes we send donuts." she finishes brightly, and Gibbs rolls his eyes.

"We're a strictly low-profile kinda organisation, unless we really have to go high-profile. ICWS do the gutting, someone else gets the glory. Works for everyone."

McGee remembers Richardson. The man was oddly jumpy at the scene and he wonders now if it was because he's come into contact with ICWS before and wasn't looking forward to another encounter.

"Unfortunately, Richardson saw the Navy ID before he saw the bite marks, otherwise we wouldn't be sitting here." Buffy continues as Mr Giles flicks through the photos, giving a very good appearance of not listening to the conversation.

"It would certainly make things less complicated, and it would have saved you the trip as well," Ducky interjects from his seat at the end of the table. "Although I must say, Miss Summers, I myself am quite relieved that you arrived in the morgue when you did."

Buffy grins at that, and Giles looks at her questioningly. There's silence for a beat, then his eyes turn stern as though he's admonishing her for her actions. All without a word being said.

McGee starts looking for wires. Maybe a wireless system, concealed well inside the ear canal and hidden from the eye, though he can see no evidence of a microphone on Buffy's sweater. He blushes when he looks up to see Buffy's gaze is fixed on his, and she's not looking entirely impressed by his perusal of her shirt.

"You done, McOgle?" Tony asks dryly, and McGee gulps and nods quickly, avoiding Buffy's eyes. So much for not being nervous.

Giles turns back to Ducky. "You misunderstand us. When Buffy said we wouldn't be sitting here, she meant that you would not have needed to get involved in our investigation." At that, Gibbs bristles visibly.

"For the John Doe investigation, maybe, but the death of Lt Sachs falls under NCIS jurisdiction. It's our case, Mr Giles."

"Actually, it's not." Buffy says quietly but firmly. "Not if we say it's not. ICWS has express permission from the United States government – since the first slayer set foot on this continent way back when, in fact – to operate on American soil in any way we see fit, in order to preserve the sanctity and safety of the human race," she recites, then shoots a little smile at Mr Giles. "See? Told you I could memorise it."

She looks at Gibbs steadily and McGee sees the resolve in her face, the absolute truth in her statement. _Cheerleader turned ruthless government honcho_, he thinks oddly, but he doesn't doubt that ICWS can shut them out of the investigation if they so desire. Gibbs must see it too, because he loses some of what McGee calls his '_going in for the kill_' look and studies her, perhaps a bit wistfully.

Giles leans back in his chair and picks up what must be a well-rehearsed duet. "What that means, Agent Gibbs, is that if we feel so inclined, we can take your case and investigate it as we see fit. Which believe me, we have done in the past." The two greying men eye each other as if each is waiting for the other to strike.

"How do you investigate without a body?" Tony asks suddenly in the silence. "I mean, do you analyse the vampire dust, or the crime scene, or…"

McGee imagines presenting a sample of vampire dust to Abby for analysis, and finds himself wondering what she'd see under a microscope, or in the mass spec. He thinks of texting Palmer surreptitiously under the table and asking him to bag some of the mess before the cleaners get to it, but he doesn't get past digging for his phone before he feels Gibbs's glare.

Buffy sighs and looks at Mr Giles, and he gives her the nod as if saying 'you can take this one.' "My world – _our world_ – is different to yours. Different rules apply. When we say 'investigating,' we mean find the demon, and find out how to kill it. No such thing as evidence, or demon court, or any of that stuff, so in a way it's simpler for me. Monkey see, monkey slay, y'know?" She shoots Ducky a glance. "We don't really have an autopsy division, as such. Had a run-in with a government group years ago who thought they could capture and tame demons, study them. It didn't end well for them."

"Slay?"

Buffy appears to be staring at a point slightly behind his right shoulder, and frowning as if she's listening to something else altogether. McGee repeats himself and their eyes meet. Hers darken slightly at his use of the word, and not for the first time he finds himself wondering just who the hell these people are.

"Buffy?" Mr Giles questions, moving as if to touch her forearm and then drawing back as if rethinking his decision. McGee watches Gibbs note this and file it away in his memory for perusal later.

"Y'know, I think I'll let Giles field this one. I need to make a quick phone call, if that's okay with you Agent Gibbs? Doesn't need to be a private line, and you can bill ICWS." Deferring now to him, to make him feel like he's in charge. Buffy Summers is one smart… woman. Agent. Possibly a cyborg.

Whatever she is, Tim is a bit impressed.

"DiNozzo, take Ms… _Buffy_ down to the bullpen. Try not to piss her off. I'm guessing she's pretty well armed." Gibbs says with a hint of a smirk, and both Buffy and Giles look surprised.

For the first time McGee realises that Giles isn't wearing a visitors badge, and for that matter neither is Buffy.

"How'd you get past Security without signing in, if you're carrying?" It's out before he can bite it back, and from the other end of the table Tony snorts but can't quite hide his own curiosity.

"Easy," Buffy says brightly, "And I should clarify first that I don't do guns. Stakes, crossbows, the odd sword, even a rocket launcher one time, but guns and Buffy are like vamps and sunlight. As long as one avoids the other, they'll be fine… except when the metaphor breaks down and… oh, never mind." _Rocket launcher_, he hears echoing in his head. Huh.

"And, to answer your question about security… we didn't. Well, I dunno about you, Giles, but I got dropped off in the elevator on Two, heading down to the morgue. Lucky Benedicta is good with the timing, else I'd be Buffy Jam at the bottom of the elevator shaft."

Off McGee's bewildered look, she adds simply, "Witches. Magic. Also real. Sorry you asked, McDetails?" He is, just a little. Every question just raises more questions. Vampires, witches, demons… girls with haunted eyes who move like deadly poetry. Magic. No rational or scientific explanations for any of it.

"McGee's McMind is McBoggling," Tony comments, and Buffy turns to McGee and looks at him apologetically. Wait. That can't be right.

"Sorry to dump all this on you," she says quietly. "All of you. It always sucks the first time you hear it. Granted, my first time was when I was fifteen and a way creepy old guy approached me and started rambling on about me having the strength to kill them all, and then suddenly I was juggling demons and math homework and dying, and learning that apocalypse has a plural…" She sighs. "Whatever. It still sucks, and believe me, I wish I didn't have to tell you in the first place."

She looks at Gibbs as the NCIS contingent in the room all stare at her, stunned. "That's why we just take over, most of the time, or pre-empt the case even getting to teams like yours. So you can stay happily oblivious to the evil that non-humans can do and let us deal with it."

She stands then, and so does Tony. "Giles, feel free to do your thing while I'm not here to interrupt you. I've heard it all before anyway, and if Agent DiNozzo here has any questions, he can ask me later. Back in a sec."

They all stare after her as she darts through the door, DiNozzo hot on her heels, and Gibbs turns questioning eyes to Mr Giles – _Giles_, as Buffy had called him. He blinks and shoots them a glance that clearly says '_Don't ask', _then clears his throat and begins.

"In every generation there is a Chosen One. She alone will stand against the vampires, demons, and the forces of darkness. At least that was the story until the Chosen became Buffy Summers…"

* * *

_Monday, 1515_

_NCIS, Washington DC_

Buffy really hates days like today, when they have to give people like Gibbs and McGee and Tony a crash course in the ugly truth of her world. Monsters aren't fairytales, they are real and every day they kill people that other people love. They try hard – _she_ tries hard – and Buffy knows they can't save everyone, but she like to think they make a difference.

That somewhere, someone else's best friend or sister or mother or lover is alive because of something that they did. It almost makes it worth it. _Almost_.

Beside her, Tony is silent as they head for the wool-pen (what an odd name for a work space). Buffy has the feeling it's less about the revelations of the day and more about something else that's bothering the Senior Field Agent. His humour breaks through at times, but for the most part he seems lost in a funk, and she knows all too well what that feels like.

"Dragon-headed-goat-lion," she says absently out of the blue, and he freezes in the corridor. "Wait. Lion-headed-dragon-goat, that was it" she corrects herself quickly, then turns to where he's stopped. "I'm not really into the research stuf, but Giles might know…"

"Chimera," he says shortly, and starts walking again as Buffy gapes after him, then quickens her step to keep up. Rude much?

"I'm sorry, did I accidentally flip your bastard switch somehow, or is it set to default whenever someone tries to help you out?" she says a little too loudly, and he looks at her furiously for just long enough to make her glad he left his gun in his desk drawer, because getting shot is _not_ on her list of things to do today.

He's a little bit hot when he's mad, she thinks distractedly, and it takes her a second to realise that he's laughing.

Not just laughing, but _heartily_ laughing, like it's the best thing he's heard in days. Buffy just stares at him, torn between going back to the conference room and announcing that Gibbs's right hand man is a roaring loony, or joining in. It's been a damn long day.

So she joins in, and they pretend not to notice that other agents give them a wide, wide berth, the Senior Field Agent and the stranger, leaning against the walls with tears running down their cheeks.

"You know, as flattered as I am, it really wasn't that funny," she says finally, and DiNozzo shrugs as they round the corner into the main squadroom area.

"You ever have one of those days when you either have to laugh or get out your axe and start chopping off limbs a la Kathy Bates in '_Misery_?'" he asks, then blinks twice. "Wait. I guess you really, literally do, and now all of my best horror movie quotes are useless. Anyway, it's been one of those '_cockadoodie_' weeks for me and I'm about ready to sharpen the axe." The words are just a shade hysterical, and his green eyes are wild.

Buffy stares at him for a minute as he sits down at what must be his desk, then looks around the bullpen, trying to give him a moment to calm down. She knows too well what it feels like, but doesn't tell him that after awhile it doesn't matter what you do to make it go away.

Three of the desks are covered with papers and knick-knacks and general signs that people live, work, and quite possibly sleep here, if the toothbrush on Tony's desk is anything to judge by.

The fourth is empty, and not just empty of personal touches but _glaringly_ empty; as though someone's come and purposely stripped even the computers from the space.

"You can use my phone," he says suddenly, pointing to the one on his desk. "I'll be down at the coffee shop taking advantage of Gibbs being tied up with your guy for… well, hopefully awhile yet. How long would you say I've got?" Now, his voice is way too bright, but Buffy's not about to call him on it.

"Depends how many questions they ask, I guess. Gibbs, he doesn't seem like much of a talker, but the other two… oh God," she says, horrified, "He'll be all reverted when he comes out of there. Do you know how long it took us to get the Slayer speech down to under a minute? Xander will kill me."

"McGee, Ducky and Gibbs," Tony muses with an almost happy smile. "I might as well pack up and go home now." He grabs his wallet and heads for the elevator, though all his things are here so Buffy's pretty sure that the going home threat was an idle one.

Speaking of home… she dials the impossibly long number and waits for someone to pick up, praying it's Caitlin or Kelly or someone sensible…

"B, you calling to check I haven't corrupted all the little slayers this time? I'm touched."

Buffy smiles despite herself. They've made their peace, her and Faith, and though they're too different to ever really be the best of friends, they share a certain understanding of what it was like to go it alone, something none of the other slayers really get.

"I'm actually calling to check that you haven't been terrorizing our guests, Faith," she says lightly, looking over at what she assumes is McGee's desk. He's stuck a bunch of photos up on the corkboard behind his desk, little photo-booth shots of him and a girl with dark pigtails grinning laughing mugging for the camera. It makes her smile widen.

Faith groans, cups her hand over the mouthpiece and starts yelling in the direction of the dorms, threatening half-heartedly that if she finds out which baby slayer squealed to the boss, they'll lose ice-cream rights for a _month_.

"Faith!" she half-yells over the noise – slayer hearing is a double-edged sword – and thankfully the noise stops. "Don't sweat it. I'd probably have done the same thing." Actually, she'd probably do anything it took to protect the young slayers.

Faith's relief is almost audible. "I gotta say, for a non-slayer she's not half bad, B. Not really ever gonna be a fair fight against someone with the Slayer package, but she's got skills. Hey, some of the girls need to talk to you, B. You want me to – " Well, that's unexpected, Buffy thinks as Faith continues, shifting in the chair and accidentally knocking over Tony's abandoned coffee cup.

Coffee floods across the desk, alarmingly close to the keyboard and fancy desk phone. _Giles, we may have no budget for ice-cream this month_, she thinks absurdly, _We might have to spend it on Tony's new computer, cos I drowned the old one_. In her head, Giles sighs.

"Crap!" she says under her breath, grabbing at anything that might be used to save the computers and electronic gear. "Faith, I'll call you back in a sec, okay?" She doesn't wait for a response, just hangs up. Faith will get over it, and it seems Ziva's made herself a friend for life. She'll get the details later.

She spots a towel wedged in the third drawer of the filing cabinet and pulls hard, predictably sending the cabinet drawer crashing onto the ground. _Destructo-Buffy is back in action_. Coffee disaster now successfully averted, she sets about putting the filing cabinet back together, stuffing paper into swing files and jamming them into the drawer in an attempt at being neat.

Buffy surveys her work and shrugs. They didn't look that organised before anyway. She crouches to dig the final file out from under the desk and a couple of loose pieces of paper fall out and flutter face up onto the desk.

Buffy promptly drops the whole file on the ground in her shock. She picks up the photo and stares hard at it, as if it's a trick, then ignoring the scattered paper she sits back down at the chair and picks up the phone again. Her head whirls.

"Beni," she says when the witch answers. "Think you can arrange to bring me home for a couple of hours? Ziva and I, I think we need to have a little girly chat." She sends a similar message to Giles via comm. unit and pointedly ignores his confused reply.

When Tony comes back minutes later, his work area is spotless and Buffy's perched on the edge staring hard at the desk that used to be Ziva's, the photo safely hidden in her pocket. She's pretty sure her face is more than a little stony, but DiNozzo, thankfully, has the good sense not to pry. She's almost tempted to confront him, but she's seen plenty of good guys go bad over the years, and though she's a more than a little confused, she's not quite ready to hand Ziva over to the enemy just yet. Especially when she's not sure she knows who the enemy is in this situation.

She touches the picture through her pocket, wondering. Four happy faces – Agent DiNozzo, Agent McGee, Pigtails, and Ziva. She's not quite smiling in the picture, but certainly not looking coerced or captive or anything other than at home. Buffy's not exactly sure what the hell is going on here, but she intends to find out and _soon_.

She's trying to puzzle out what a Mossad operative was doing at NCIS anyway, while Tony watches her carefully, and Buffy watches the clock for the stroke when she can enter the stairwell and disappear. Minutes tick by and Tony gives up the staring and starts flicking through old case files. He finds what he's looking for and hits a button on his keyboard, bringing up a slideshow of photos accidentally.

If it were anyone else, they would have missed the subtle tightening of his muscles and stormy expression as he unsuccessfully hits buttons in order to get rid of the picture, but he's not quick enough for slayer reflexes. Despite herself, Buffy leans over to look. "Girlfriend?" she asks brightly, already knowing the answer but holding her breath nevertheless.

"Partner," he says shortly as if the words leave a bad taste in his mouth, "Well, ex-partner. She died in an explosion in Africa a week or so ago." Despite his bitter tone, he hasn't moved his eyes from the photo, and they - unlike the rest of him - are soft and filled with might-have-beens.

Curiouser and curiouser, and as Buffy's pondering this new information her watch ticks over and in her head she hears Beni say in her gentle voice "Ready when you are, Miss Buffy."

Buffy stands and picks up her jacket. "If they _ever_ emerge, tell Giles I'll be in touch soon with some options." Tony nods and looks on the verge of telling her she needs permission to leave, but they both know it's just a show.

"Pretty sure I'll be seeing you again soon, Agent DiNozzo." And with a whirl of blonde hair, she pulls open the stairwell door and vanishes.

* * *

_Enjoyed (or hated) this chapter and thinking idly of reviewing? Go ahead - make my day ;)  
_


	11. The Trouble With Tequila

_**A/N:** Warning: Where Faith goes, so does some inevitable cursing. Which for me isn't a problem since I'm a colourful curser most of the time myself, but if you're easily offended, you might want to pretend you're not. Kay?_

This chapter happens more or less concurrently with the last section of the last chapter. Enjoy!

_

* * *

_

_Monday, 2015  
JC Academy, England_

"So he fronts up to me with a big shit-eating grin on his face and says 'Faith, baby, let me show you what a real man can do for you', – which pretty much just proves how damn stupid Clonach demons are since my sword was still sticky with the green goo from his buddies' insides and all – but he's got a bottle of Jose in his hand," and here Faith pauses and smiles knowingly as Xander and Caitlin laugh, " so I take a swig and he's so busy watching my lips, the idiot takes his eyes off my sword and his head hits the ground about the same time the alcohol burns its way down into my gut."

Caitlin applauds, and then hiccups and sinks back into the overstuffed armchair as Faith eyes her warily. Her dark eyes turn to Ziva and she quirks an eyebrow challengingly.

"Your turn, Z."

Ziva stares at her, unsure of what to say. Once upon a time, killing came as easily to her as breathing, but while she knows the rush of adrenaline that comes when a target lies dead before you, it always left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth. She was doing her job – eliminating traitors and terrorists and yes, they deserved what they got – but each time she pulled the trigger a little piece of her slipped away.

Faith, on the other hand, seems to have no such problem. Quite the opposite – with each story, she grows more and more animated. Perhaps it's due to the bottle of tequila that's being passed around the group, half-empty now and clutched by a giggling Caitlin.

Ziva reaches over and takes the bottle from the younger girl, the glass cool under her hot palms, and frowns at the label. _Jose_. She wonders whether…

Opposite, Xander shoots her a half-smile and eyes the bottle, then looks at Faith. "Don't call it the demon drink for nothing, huh?" His gaze turns back to Ziva and softens almost imperceptibly. "Faith's just teasing. You don't have to share."

Faith scoffs and snags the bottle from Ziva's grip. "Couldn't top that anyway," she says, but there's no real scorn in her voice and her little shrug could almost be an apology.

They've been sitting in the staff lounge for the past half hour or so, swapping stories and reminiscing about things they've killed in between swigs of tequila. Word must have gotten around, because staff members keep popping in to listen, though they generally only last about five minutes before Faith shoots them a glance and they stammer and leave quickly.

"This ain't a fairytale," she'd said pointedly to a red-haired man who had been back twice 'searching for his copy of Girnock's Demonology Compendium'and looked particularly disgusted at Xander and Caitlin's account of a demon hunt in Paris last summer_, _"You want a happy ending, there's plenty of fluffy Disney crap down in the Slayer's common room. Go. Study. Sing along."

He'd fled and Faith had smirked wickedly, making Ziva think that maybe part of Faith quite enjoyed playing on people's impressions of her. The Wild One, the Lone Slayer. Like Buffy the bubbly California girl, or Tony the incompetent bumbling clown.

Ziva of the unflinching countenance and hard heart thinks, _oh_ _Tony_.

Her head is spinning, more from the sheer impossibility of some of their exploits than from the alcohol. Tony (and probably McGee) would kill to be here right now; listening to a doe-eyed woman named Faith talk about wrestling alligators. Among other things. She wonders what they're doing right now, what their latest case is. Whether they have a new team member yet, and if he or she is driving Tony up the hall.

She bites her lip at the thought, because in all honesty if he _were_ here –

The phone startles her from her thoughts, and she watches as Faith springs from her chair and grabs it, passing the bottle of tequila to Xander as she mumbles a greeting into the phone and then straightens up sharply at the response from the other end.

"B, you calling to check I haven't corrupted all the little slayers this time? I'm touched."

Ziva eyes Caitlin, who is trying to convince Xander that she can in fact pat her head and rub her stomach simultaneously. Slayer reflexes fail in the face of her hiccups and she sinks back onto the couch with a pout.

Ziva wonders what exactly constitutes 'corruption' in Buffy's book, and Faith's eyes flicker guiltily over to meet hers, making her realize that Buffy's heard about the misunderstanding.

"They're prob'ly talking bout you," Caitlin says unnecessarily, and Faith waves at her to keep it down. She leans in close to Ziva and whispers, "Siobhan tol' Giles all about it just 'fore he left to go Washington. But don't tell Faith, cos' she's gonna be – "

Faith hauls open the door and starts yelling down the corridor as Caitlin winces and finishes " – really, _really_ pissed."

Ziva's still stuck on _Washington_, and she grits her teeth with the effort of not asking what exactly Giles is doing there. Meeting the President. Sightseeing. Demon-hunting. The odds of meeting Gibbs or Tony or anyone who knows her are slim in a city of over 500,000 people.

_You just heard a Vampire Slayer tell you stories about killing demons with broadswords and__ her bare hands, Ziva, _she thinks with a groan, _and you are evaluating the _odds_ of your two worlds colliding?_

" – she's got skills. Hey, some of the girls – "

Xander touches her shoulder gently and it takes all of her tenuous control not to break his fingers. He studies her, eye patch slightly askew. "Buffy's not going to be mad at you, if that's what you're all tense about," he says simply and if he noticed her reaction to his touch he doesn't show it.

"I am fine," she says quietly.

"Yeah, and Caitlin would pass a field sobriety test," he says with an amused glance at the blonde slayer, who has curled up on the couch and is blinking heavily as though fighting sleep.

Instead of answering, she reaches for the tequila and takes a long swig, long enough so that she can pretend the steady burning in her throat and behind her eyes is alcohol-induced and not at all a result of her past flooding over her. She chokes and sputters and the room warps, in and out and around.

"Right, I'm cutting you off," Xander says, taking the bottle from her nerveless fingers and tossing it deftly to Faith who is saying something about a ceiling fan and the chains from the East Wing storage cupboard. "And as a former bartender in a bar that served evil cavemen-making beer, believe me when I say that alcohol? Not the world's greatest problem solver."

Xander adjusts the patch and Ziva wonders how he lost his eye, why they haven't just… well, they healed _her_ wounds with magic, why not his? She realizes she's staring and looks away quickly, though not before catching his knowing look. _He sees everything_, she thinks with a frown. It is… disconcerting, to say the least.

Faith hangs up the phone with a shrug and a puzzled look, vaulting neatly over the back of the three-seater Ziva's curled up on and landing squarely on the end cushion with a little jolt. "Don't go getting all self-important or anything," she mutters to Ziva, who just stares at her blankly. "You were listening, yeah?"

"Not really." Maybe a little, but not enough to hear whatever's got Faith looking almost… embarrassed. _Should have eavesdropped, Ziva._

"Oh. Well, in that case… Forget it. Xander, tell Z about that time you and yours found the wicked nasty Cuag'torth in the sewer and you only had your – "

Ziva listens with amusement as the two of them banter, filling in the gaps in each other's stories and trading insults in what is obviously a well-practiced dance. There's comfort to be found in the familiar repartee, even if it makes her throat tighten with what-might-have-beens. _What still could be_, she reminds herself, even if she can't for the life of her figure out how.

(That's what you get when you rig your bridges with enough C-4 to take out a small town, no matter whose hand covers yours as you light the fuse. Crash and burn.)

"Well ladies," Xander says eventually with a loose grin, "It's been a blast, but some of us have to get up at the ass crack of dawn. Still waiting for the upside of the whole 'Field Operations Director' gig. " He wobbles a little as he stands, pulling a protesting Caitlin with him.

"Xander! Lemme go!"

He wraps his arm around her waist and says slowly, "C'mon, Cait, I'll take you back to your room and tuck you in," then looks vaguely horrified at the implications, adding, "In a strictly platonic sense, because you're like my little sister and it's even more wrong than Giles hinting that he _has_ a sex life."

Faith snorts, a mixture of laughter and approval, and Caitlin pouts for a minute before breaking into giggles. Xander looks her up and down apprehensively. "We'll find you a bucket on the way, just in case."

The younger girl looks up at him like… like Ziva once used to look at Ari, and it might just be the tequila numbing the jagged edges of her memory, but the comparison doesn't hurt nearly as much as it would have once.

Pain is a relative term, after all.

Faith shrugs and turns to Ziva. "It's still early, and the weather channel says the rain's gonna hold off until tomorrow. Nice night for violence," she says casually, her eyes burning with anticipation. "You wanna come with?"

Ziva shakes her head and the room spins a little . She's sorely out of practice at holding her liquor compared to the brunette slayer, and even more out of her league when it comes to demons, despite her solo (_sober_) San Francisco success. Faith just shrugs and holds out her hand, pulling Ziva up slowly.

She's grateful for small mercies, given the fact that sometime between the story about the Clonach and what Xander called the 'butt-ugly-pig-dragon-dog demon', the world has turned into a washing machine and her cycle is currently hovering somewhere between 'agitate' and 'light-speed spin dry'.

"Your loss," Faith says with a lazy grin, studying her. "You good to find your way back through the maze? I've told Giles a bunch of times they need better signage in the hallways, but no luck so far."

"I think I have been here long enough to know my way around," Ziva says with a trace of impatience that she hopes hides her hesitation. God… how much tequila did she drink? Four, no – five passes of the bottle around the circle, plus the sixth just before which probably counts as six _and_ seven. Possibly seven and a half, and she's talking _swigs_ not shots…

"Z?"

…If this were a Mossad operation, she would have been to the bathroom at least twice by now to purge the alcohol from her system. The necessity of having a clear head and above-average reaction time means that a drunk assassin can easily become a dead assassin. Obviously for Slayers (or perhaps just Faith), things work a little differently….

A sigh and a popping of joints as Faith flexes her limbs. "This's why I told Giles to put the damn guest quarters on the _ground_ floor."

The world tilts alarmingly as she's unceremoniously slung over the shoulder of a slayer, who sets off toward the staff quarters with a spring in her step. Ziva wriggles and swears colorfully as her head off bounces Faith's lower back, but she might as well be talking to a brick wall for all the response she gets.

"When I told myself I'd find someone to take home tonight after patrol, this ain't what I had in mind," Faith says after awhile, and from her tone it's blatantly obvious that she's grinning from ear to ear. "You actually speak all those languages, or just know a sailor in every port?" Ziva rolls her eyes and tries to maneuver out of Faith's steely grip.

"I _can_ walk, you know." The floor continues to move at a dizzying pace. "Faith!"

Things turn right-way-up with a lurch, and Ziva leans against the wall, breathing hard. She stares angrily at Faith, who doesn't look the slightest bit affected by her Ziva-laden run up three flights of stairs.

"Level Three," Faith says with an overdramatic flourish, "Electrical; Sporting Goods; House of Ninja. And you're welcome, by the way."

"I did not ask you to throw me over your shoulder like… like…."

"A constipated soldier?" And, bizarrely, Faith starts singing a song about testicles under her breath, what Tony would call a 'big shit-eating grin' on her face. Her anger evaporating, Ziva can't help but laugh; even if she has the suspicion she's being played. Must be the tequila.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle at the same time as Faith stops singing and cocks her head, listening carefully to something Ziva can only vaguely hear. It's somewhere between a crackle and a high-pitched hum, strangely familiar and yet not instantly recognizable.

Faith moves past Ziva and unlocks the heavy oak door to her rooms carefully, though the movement seems more a confirmation of suspicion than an all-out offensive approach. Ziva doesn't even have time to ask when exactly Faith managed to take her keys (most likely it was sometime on the way up the stairs), before Faith is turning and shooting her a puzzled look.

"You got a visitor," she says with a frown, and Ziva can count on one hand the people who would be in her room unannounced at the gloriously late hour of… 2100. Huh. Time doesn't fly like you'd expect it to when you're hearing stories about demon beheadings.

Faith fades into the background, still watching but physically stepping back from the situation, and just as Ziva's about to step cautiously through the door Buffy steps out, stiff-backed and hard-faced. The look in her eyes sobers Ziva more effectively and instantly than a cold shower or a finger down her throat ever could.

"Buffy?"

It's easy to forget that essentially, a Slayer is a predator, an alpha, something fierce and primal inside a body that still looks weak and entirely unassuming. Ziva's heard a little of the First Slayer story from Giles, and wonders now if that was the reason that the Shadow Men chose a female in the first place – to maximize the surprise (and therefore damage) factor when a sweet-looking woman kicked the ass of whatever she was hunting.

Ziva knows _something_ about that, having lived it for the past ten-odd years even without the bonus of supernatural strength and agility, thanks to another man who saw an opportunity to maximize damage and played on it.

Buffy couldn't be more hunter-like right now than if she was nose-up to the wind, tracking the scent of her prey. The realization that _she_, Ziva, is the prey comes slower than she'd like.

"Washington no fun? I can see that happening, with all the politics and crap floating 'round. Bet even the demons are uptight." Faith says in an attempt to lighten the mood, her confusion evident.

Buffy's eyes remain on Ziva as she answers, her tone light despite her unchanging gaze. "Demons are demons. Politics, on the other hand… well, it's probably lucky I left Giles there to do all the politico-talk for me, though once NCIS is done asking questions…"

It takes everything Ziva has in her not to fold like she's been sucker-punched in the gut when Buffy mentions NCIS. As it is, she bites the inside of her mouth so hard she tastes blood, and she's almost certain that despite her best efforts, she's failed miserably at keeping her feelings out of her eyes. _Tony. Gibbs. McGee. Abby. Ducky._

The assault of names and memories continue, blinking in unstoppable loops like a projector with a broken 'off' button. Buffy's still talking, and she fights to keep her attention on the blonde slayer.

_Ne__ver take your eyes off your combatant, _she hears in her head, a lesson well-learnt over the years. She's not sure they're at drawing weapons stage just yet, but it never hurts to be on your guard.

"….we'll probably have to start his '_keep it simple_' training all over again. If their ME, Dr Mallard, was female he'd be Giles's dream partner. He'd also be a _total_ cougar, but still, age is only a number."

"Unless they're under sixteen, then it's a jail sentence." Faith counters quickly, stepping a little closer to Ziva. "Benedicta land you in the wrong room or somethin'? Thought she was a pro."

"She is," Buffy says curtly. "Faith, don't you have an elsewhere to be?" The message is clear, but Faith only looks from Buffy to Ziva and then shrugs as if clueless. Ziva's not entirely comforted – Faith's eyes are a little cooler toward her than they were five minutes ago, but mostly she just seems confused by the unexplained tension crackling through the corridor.

"Nah. I'm good here for now. NCIS? Thought we'd worked with all the arrogant acronyms there _were_ in Washington. CSI boys get a makeover or somethin'?"

"It stands for Naval Criminal Investigative Services," Ziva says between rising waves of nausea, looking Buffy directly in the eyes. "Which I am sure you expected me to know, if the look on your face is any indication."

She closes her eyes tight and breathes deeply, fighting the renewed spinning and almost entirely sure that this time it has very little to do with the tequila, and more to do with having her feet knocked out from under her just as she'd begun to make sense of the ground again.

"Much as I'm lovin' all the super-uncomfortable suspense and meaningful looks between you two, can someone please tell me _what the fuck is going on here_?" Faith demands, and Ziva holds up a hand in the universal _'give me a minute to decide if I'm going to vomit or not' _gesture.

"Don't give me the '_drop it, Faith'_ hand wave!" the brunette slayer says hotly.

Perhaps not so universal after all.

A door opens further down the hall and light floods the hall as a tousled head pokes out. Buffy waves an apology to the unknown figure and as the light recedes Buffy's eyes shift back to Ziva.

"Inside," she says, and it's not quite an order but it's fairly clear that it's not optional. Ziva doesn't need to be asked twice, bolting past Buffy's unyielding figure as her stomach churns unpleasantly with all the things she knows are coming. Figuratively and literally.

She's not sure what burns more, the tequila or the memories.

Afterwards, she rinses out her mouth and splashes water on her face and feels no better than she did before. It's clear that whatever Buffy has seen or heard, she's suspicious (which really, Ziva can't fault her for because once upon a time she would have kneecapped first, asked questions later) and there's no way to avoid an explanation.

She walks out of the bathroom with her head held high, thinking of a Russian joke she'd heard from a senior Mossad officer early in her career, after her first near-miss.

_She'd been released from hospital that day__ – alone – and found him waiting outside the hospital doors with an envelope in his hand and an almost-pitying smile on his scarred face. "A soldier is being led to his execution," he'd said by way of greeting, taking in her bruised jaw and slow stride._

"_Some bad weather we're having," he says to his envoy. _

"_Look who's complaining," they reply, "__**We**__ have to go back."_

_The man had smiled at her confusion and patted her on the shoulder awkwardly, mindful of the stitches. "No matter how bad it seems, remember that it can always be worse," he'd said as he handed her the envelope and disappeared into the parking lot. _

_The next morning, she had been on a plane to Cairo with her new orders in her sweaty hand and his words echoing in her ears._

Buffy is waiting near the door, perhaps a fraction less hostile than in the hallway though it could be a trick of the light. Behind her, Faith lounges casually on the bed, both Slayers watchful and waiting. _...Tell me everything you know about NCIS_, Ziva thinks as Buffy pulls a familiar photo from her pocket and hands it to Ziva. She holds it lower than necessary so her angled head blocks the tears that well in her eyes.

"You worked with them."

"Yes."

"In what capacity?" She doesn't know this official-sounding Buffy with the clipped words and suspicious eyes.

"I was a Liaison Officer between Mossad and NCIS, though I did not actually do much in the way of liaising. The Director at the time owed me a favor, and I needed to… I needed to get away from Mossad for awhile. I was on Gibbs's team – " she names him without hesitation, because surely if Buffy worked with Ducky she must have been investigating a murder, and Gibbs's team are the only one who would be involved in that sort of case, " – for almost four years."

"How'd you end up back in Hell Aviv – sorry, _Tel Aviv_ – I went there last summer and _damn_ they breed their demons mean in that part of the world – if you were meant to be Washington Liais-o Girl?" Faith asks curiously.

"My fath… my Director requested my return after..." She can't say the words. Pause and fidget and breathe. Wish for tequila, or a mind-numbing blow, anything to take away the wrenching ache inside. The words roll around in her mouth like poison and for a moment she wants to be sick again.

_After Tony killed Michae__l to protect me from what I should have suspected_. "…after an incident in Washington led to the death of a Mossad officer, and NCIS being summoned to Tel Aviv. My Director was… displeased… that I had such a close relationship with the Americans, and _compelled _me to return to Israel to finish what Officer Rivkin started. If you ask Gibbs, he might tell you that I forced him to choose between Agent DiNozzo," her voice breaks on his name and Buffy's eyes flicker, "and myself; and that is the truth, but I never had a choice. I hope Gibbs's gut told him that."

She laughs bitterly and it scorches the air. Her throat feels pulpy from the acid and the threat of tears. "I do not know what I expected to achieve by returning to Mossad. I already knew that my father was not to be trusted, and I not only put myself directly in the spider's web but I severed all ties with anyone who might have been able to help me, afterwards."

"Your _father_?" _Damn_.

"My father is the Director of Mossad," Ziva says simply.

Faith and Buffy both just stare at her, making the necessary connections. Buffy's mouth moves as though she's trying to offer comfort but someone's hit the mute button. Faith breaks the tension by leaning back into the headboard of the bed and saying, "Daddy issues. No wonder you fit right in here with the poster children for dysfunctional parenting. Sending your daughter out on missions that could kill her? Damn, that's cold."

Ziva bristles inexplicably. "How is it different to Giles sending Buffy out patrolling at the age of sixteen?" She's not even sure why she said it, given her feelings about her… Director. Other than a last name and genetics which she mostly can't change, there's nothing much else that she wants to share with the man ever again.

She sighs and turns away from them, thinking of men and impossible choices. "We do what we think we have to at the time. Even if it hurts the ones you love."

"The mission is what matters," Buffy says in a low and thoughtful voice, and when her eyes meet Ziva's there's no trace of General Buffy left in them at all. And to think, it only took the almost-baring of her soul to accomplish it. Ziva can't be angry at Buffy – the slayer was simply protecting _her_ mission, though in a different way to Faith.

She makes a mental note never to cross either of them.

"Who's the spunk-rat?" Faith says with a low whistle, having picked up the discarded photo. Ziva looks over at her and she points to Tony with a little hip jiggle. "In between him and the silver fox, I'd never get any work done,"

"Which is why you get assignments like wiping out demon clans in Africa and I get assignments like coffee and cake with the President," Buffy says with a grin, and Ziva feels the tension drain from the room like a cosmic plug has been yanked. She's not entirely sure why, but given what she knows about both women she supposes the idea of impossible choices strikes something of a chord.

_A __Tristram__ chord,_ she thinks oddly as the two Slayers continue their good-natured teasing. She wonders suddenly if there's a piano here. Wagner created the progression for his 1865 opera, flying in the face of standard harmony by continually resolving one particular type of dissonant chord with another, keeping audiences waiting on a tonally acceptable resolution for whole scenes or even until the third act.

Buffy and her friends are the real-life example of the musical phenomenon - tension that never really resolves, just gets buried amongst all the other action on the stage until suddenly you realize it's been humming underneath the whole time.

_Ziva__ first saw '__Tristan and Isolde'__ in Paris at the tender age of 22, hanging flirtatiously from the arm of a man who was something of a music history buff as well as being a traitor to the state of Israel. He taught her about music and fine clothing and wine, and in return she shot him twice the head and slipped out the window into a balmy summer night. She didn't touch the piano for months afterward._

"So… what now?" Buffy asks her carefully, perching on the edge of the bed. "Not that you're not welcome to stay here, but…" She sighs. "This is gonna sound hypocritical as hell, given my stance on burying certain hatchets, but you should go talk to them."

"I doubt I would get further than the NCIS security desk," Ziva replies bitterly. "My father never does anything by halves, and by now I am most likely _persona non grata_ in the American intelligence world. Not to mention with Gibbs's team. They are… Things did not end well, and they would be suspicious of my sudden reappearance."

Buffy shoots her an unreadable look. "You might be right about that," she says evenly, "but after what they saw me do in their morgue this afternoon, it may not be for the reasons you'd think."

* * *

_Hello ... *waves* Anyone still reading? LOL_


	12. Hide and Seek

_**A/N:** You know what? It's been one of those 'hide under the covers' kind of days. Days when I just should **not** write, because everything gets all tangled and angsty and... bleurgh!_

Please excuse crappy writing as direct result of crappy mood.

Realised while lining up dates etc that I've screwed up majorly on the timing. To line up with the NCIS universe, we should be *7* years post-Chosen, not 4. It doesn't change the rest of the story at all. If you can just pretend that it was 7 all along, that would be super.

_Thanks for all the 'favourite' and 'alert' adds, and huge thanks to those who take the time to review!! You rock my freakin' world :)_

* * *

_Monday, 2300  
JC Academy, England._

"They believe I am dead," Ziva says flatly, looking at Buffy like she's just smacked her across the back of the head with a two-by-four. Faith left the room sometime after Buffy dropped the 'dead' bomb, either giving them space to talk or unable to stay cooped up any longer. Or a combination of both.

"Sounds like this is more up your alley than mine," she'd said to Buffy with a quick glance in Ziva's direction, "Might go bribe Anna to 'port me somewhere I can be helpful, get a bit of violence in, y'know?" She'd stood awkwardly for a minute and then said, "You need anything, Z, you know where to find me," and headed out the door without waiting for a reply.

"Yeah, that's gonna be a problem," Buffy says lightly now, then sobers when she sees the hurt flash in Ziva's brown eyes. She drops her gaze to her lap to hide it, and Buffy sighs and pretends not to stare as Ziva's hands twist together so tightly that the blood drains from her knuckles. Buffy gives her a minute, trying to find the right words.

"Luckily for you, I'm a card carrying member of the 'Back from the Dead' club, so believe me when I say they'll get used to it eventually."

Ziva doesn't look up, and her voice is quiet when she speaks. "Your friends, they thought you were dead?"

"Nope," Buffy says with a heavy sigh, "Well, yes… but in my case they were right. Cause, y'know, I was."

At that, Ziva's head snaps up so fast that she winces. Her eyes narrow in consideration, studying Buffy's face for truth, but she doesn't speak. _Guess there's not much you can say to top that one,_ Buffy thinks wryly, waiting for Ziva to absorb the statement.

"I was twenty years old," Buffy says eventually, getting up and pacing around the room as though movement will make it easier to say the words. "I jumped into a big mess of crackling energy to save my… my sister, and the world, and I died. Which, looking back, was less about glorious sacrifice and more about being _tired_." She snorts, thinking of something she said to Angel in what now seems like another life.

"Turns out that being strong really is hard, painful and everyday. I was done," she says against a sudden stab of regret, " I was done, and I knew they would be okay, and it turned out they weren't because they needed me so badly they pulled me out of Heaven. I woke up in my coffin in a dress I said I'd never be caught dead in – and isn't irony just a bitch? – after 147 days according to Spike, and everything had changed. I didn't want to be there, and I didn't fit, and my friends wanted _so_ badly to believe they had done the right thing, I couldn't..." Time has blunted the sharpness of the memory, but it still aches.

And besides, it's not relevant at the moment because hello? Not really her that has the immediate problem.

Buffy tracks around the room and comes back to sit in front of Ziva, who looks thoughtful and more than a little horrified. Somehow though, the expression on her face is laced understanding _for_ Buffy, rather than the '_oh dear what a dreadful experience_' pity crap the few people other than the Scoobies who've heard the story have tried to pull.

Her instincts were right, then, from the first day in that little infirmary room. They both know what it's like to welcome death, and be pulled back from it despite their wishes. She's not sure whether it's comforting or incredibly weird to be talking to someone who might actually have a good shot at getting it.

"It took me a long time to really crawl out of my grave. But that's a world of bitterness for another time, because my rapidly disappearing point is that there aren't a lot of second chances in life," and she breathes out her regret like smoke and suddenly thinks of Willow, "and you need to seize the fish, as it were, when you get them."

"Seize the… oh! Carpe diem," Ziva says, her forehead smoothing for a second between thoughtful frowns. "I'm sorry," she says quietly, and Buffy looks at her curiously.

"Don't be. I'm… well, not entirely over it, but dealing. It took a long time, but I found my place again. And at the risk of sounding like I've been body-snatched by a Hallmark demon, you'll find yours soon enough." She shudders. "Gah! Erase that. Over-sap."

"There is a… Hallmark demon?"

"Sometimes I wonder. Who else could come up with that much mush, without going insane? We should get somebody onto that," Buffy quips, shifting in the chair. "Look, I get that there's a lot of obstacles. There always are. But – and don't take this the wrong way or anything – Ziva; I'd bet Mr Pointy that if I asked Tony what he'd give to have you back, he wouldn't pick that cartoon-y stapler he has on his desk. He'd give up, like, _Gibbs_."

"My father will no doubt have someone watching Washington, and the Navy Yard in case I return," Ziva says slowly, and Buffy takes the planning and thinking ahead as a good sign. "I do not know why he told NCIS that I was dead. It is likely that he did it simply to prevent them from believing me if I contacted them instead of him."

Her eyes flash with unbridled anger and Buffy wonders if Giles would go for sending Faith on a Mossad/ICWS liaison visit just so she could pretend to slip and 'accidentally' put a boot in Eli David's child-producing parts. Some people should just not be allowed to procreate.

She considers Ziva's statement for a second, then stands. "Come on," she says, then off Ziva's confused look, "I'm having a plan. There's always someone on night watch in the Magic Department, in case of Slayer emergency. Lucky I haven't threatened to stake any of them lately."

* * *

_Monday, 1800  
Navy Yard, Washington_

Tony can hear the music pounding from Abby's lab even before the doors open, and he winces in anticipation. He's not in the mood for Lucid Dementia right now, or anytime really, though after the things he's heard – and _seen_ – today; he's sort of been wondering if he's lost his mind, so it's a fitting choice of artist really.

Beside him, McGee sighs. "Payback," he offers when Tony gives him a strange look, but unusually he doesn't cave immediately under the Senior Field Agent's stare.

"You two have been weird ever since we came back from Tel Aviv," Tony says with narrowed eyes, hitting the emergency stop button and standing in front of it so McGee can't reach around him. "My gut is telling me that something's rotten in the state of Denmark."

"You read Hamlet?" McGee looks vaguely impressed for about two minutes, before he rolls his eyes. "Saw the movie. Right. Olivier or Gibson?"

Tony wants to say 'Shakespeare' because he actually _has_ read the play (though if he has to choose, it's Olivier all the way despite some major flaws in the narrative), but that's not really the point here. "No good trying to distract me, McTwitchy. What did you and Abby _do_ in Israel, in your shared hotel room… Oh!"

It's been a long time since he's seen a face go that particular fetching shade of red.

"Tony… it was… we… you… it just happened, okay?" McGee is wide-eyed and stammering at being caught, and the realization of how disconnected Tony's been from the team comes like a flood.

He rubs his chin thoughtfully in the spirit of change – or perhaps reversion is a better term since he's teasing McGee pretty much like old times. "I should ask Gibbs whether Rule Twelve is internationally binding, or just applies while we're in DC. Though given that he came up with it in Paris, I'm guessing you're shit outta luck, Probing Probie."

"Probed," McGee says hurriedly, then slaps his hand to his forehead as Tony laughs out loud. "I mean, it was only that one time… maybe twice. But both in the past tense, so not so much with the probing. Or the _being_ probed, in a literal kind of way, because…" He sighs and tries again. "It was… we were both grieving, and hung over, and… well, we just wanted something familiar to hang on to."

"And you wonder why you have no luck with the ladies," Tony says with a grin. "For a bestselling author, you're surprisingly ineloquent. So now what?" McGee makes a lunge for the elevator button and fails spectacularly. From his position on the ground he glares up at Tony.

"Now nothing, except she's gone all un-Abby-like and I don't know what to do to fix it."

Tony considers it for a minute, hearing the stairwell door slam open and closed again as someone obviously gives up on waiting for the elevator and takes the stairs. Perhaps **he** should start taking the stairs to avoid getting into a situation where he has to give McGee _relationship advice_. Ugh. Not that they're in a relationship per se, but they need pointers on how to hide their encounter from Gibbs, and with all his considerable relationship experience he feels compelled to say, "Change your cell number, and remember Rule Thirteen."

McGee is clearly confused. "But that's the reason things are like this in the first place!"

"You have much to learn, young grasshopper. Rule _Twelve_ is never date a co-worker. Rule _Thirteen_ is always carry a..."

"Knife." He looks worried suddenly. "You don't think that…"

"Taped under the computer desk in easy reach," Tony supplies, wondering if it's wrong that he's enjoying this just a little bit. "Also, if she's wearing the wrist spikes, keep in mind that a knife might not be your biggest problem." He moves away from the button panel and lets McGee hit the button.

"Thanks, Tony," he says sullenly as the doors open. "You've been really helpful."

"Well, I aim to…"

"DiNozzo, McGee – get in here!" _Of course_ Gibbs is already there, and sounding like he's sorely in need of a refill. Guess the boss is a little discombobulated by today's revelations as well. They scramble in like eager puppies waiting for a bone and Tony thinks _one day I'll stroll in like I couldn't care less about what Gibbs wants or how quickly he gets it. _Today is obviously not that day.

Abby is standing unusually motionless in the middle of the room in the centre of a spreading pool of what looks suspiciously like Caf-Pow. Her mouth flaps open and closed like a land-locked goldfish and her eyes are wide.

"Vampires… demons… dust…" Perhaps they should have held onto Mr Giles for a little longer, as Gibbs is clearly not so skilled with explaining the supernatural without sending people jostling for the nearest straitjacket.

Gibbs shoots Tony an almost helpless look, and well experienced in this situation, Tony exaggeratedly mimes a headslap then grins in surprise as Gibbs follows his example. This should be interesting, a snapshot for the record books. _Abby's First Headslap_. He wishes he had the Nikon handy.

The supremely offended look Abby gives Gibbs is enough to make McGee let out a little squeak of fear beside Tony; the junior agent no doubt imagining that glare turned on him later.

"Gibbs! God, will you just let me deal for a minute here? Pardon me if I'm not all stoic and collected about having my worldview seriously rocked. And to be honest, a little hurt that none of you invited me to the show earlier. "

"Because asking the tiny little cheerleader type to stop whaling on the murder-victim-turned-monster while we got the popcorn ready would have been _**so**_ appropriate," Tony says in their defence, then takes a step back when she rounds on him in a whirl of pigtails. He checks her wrists – standard cuffs, no spikes in sight – and breathes a sigh of relief. "Speaking of which, did you find anything?"

"Yes and no," Abby says, though she's obviously still mad. She clicks through the screens with a vehemence that makes Tony feel sorry for the mouse.

"Buffy Anne Summers, originally from Los Angeles, moved to Sunnydale in '97 with her mother Joyce, deceased almost eight years ago. Spotty attendance record and average grades through high school, suspected in multiple incidents of damage to school property, one of which was the destruction of Hemery High gym because according to Summers, there was an infestation of rats in the building. Although another report says 'asbestos', but that's the LAPD for you, thorough with their story-checking as always."

"Bloodsucking rats with little yellow eyes?" McGee says curiously, and Tony stares at him. Vampire rats. Way to increase a person's _completely rational_ phobia.

"Words cannot describe how much you'll wish you never said that, Mc-" Tony rubs the back of his head and shuts his mouth as Gibbs lowers his hand and Abby continues.

"'So what, Abby?', you're thinking. Every teenager acts out in their own special way. And you'd be right, but most of them don't have criminal records, or end up as the Deputy Director of a mysterious international organisation before the age of 30. Without a college degree or any other significant employment history other than a burger chain that was shut down by the Sanitation Department years ago. By the way, when they come back you really need to congratulate them on having some _seriously_ secure computer systems. It's like Fort Knox in there."

"Did you find _anything _useful, Abs?"

"Thin ice, Gibbs. Especially after that slap. Plus, I'm still pissed that you didn't come and get me, so while you all take a moment to imagine how many ways I could kill you without leaving any evidence; here are some images for your perusal. Because Abby never disappoints."

A file marked 'Department of Defence: Sunnydale' pops up onto the screen. "Exhibit A. Vague references to a covert operation in which a sub-group of the US government set up some kind of… facility… in Sunnydale. Huge budget, lots of scientists and medical professionals and Army personnel. Massive failure – something about a fire? – and the whole project was just… abandoned." She clicks on another screen and a mass of black lines pop up. "This is the file of one Buffy Summers, occasional 'consultant' to the project. Not very useful, considering someone's heavy-handed use of black marker."

"Secret government organisations offer classified extra-curricular activities on many college campuses these days?" Gibbs asks, as Abby clicks again and the next file leaps onto the screen. Tony blinks at the aerial photo of… a big hole in the ground.

"Sunnydale," Abby says as means of explanation. "Or what's left of it. Don't you remember, Tony, we saw the footage on the TV at Smoky's a couple days after the town just suddenly disappeared? You said…"

"That real estate would be cheap there now, _and_ provide panoramic canyon views?" he says with a winning smile, not remembering what Abby's talking about at all. Must be all the head trauma.

"That you'd never seen such total and utter destruction outside one of your movies, and you thought something seemed 'off' about the earthquake story. And Kate said she was surprised that you could actually be serious about something."

"Guess I was right. Okay. Next?" Tony says, because he doesn't want to think about Kate, and Abby's got that look about her which usually means she's one or two info-dumps away from exploding and will be easily distracted.

She clicks on, and bounces a little as the three Agents stare silently at the photo of a gravestone. _Buffy Anne Summers_, it says, the words unmistakeably carved into the granite. _1981-2001_. He skims down. _She Saved the World a Lot. _

Damn, he hates it when he's right.

"When she said she was juggling dying and math, I thought it was a figure of speech," McGee says faintly. "But… she actually _died_?"

"I found this when I was trawling through cyberspace, oddly enough on a not-secure-enough-website that also offers tips for cleaning mould from one's scales and locations of 'member-friendly' bars such as Willy's Sunset Shack. If you're interested, Willy claims to stock sixteen different varieties of premium-grade blood, both human and animal. From the comments underneath the image – some of which weren't in any language my translation program recognises – there was some pretty heavy-duty celebrating when it was posted. '_Slayer Bites It_,' was the caption. Dead girl, happy… demons. And whoa, demons are real, and I need to sit down again."

She sits heavily on the swivel stool and spins around to face McGee, though Tony notices she doesn't _quite_ meet his eyes. "Did you at **least** ask about the leprechauns?"

"Social networking for the non-human race. Is there a demon Twitter too?" Tony asks, his brain working overtime. She looked pretty damn good for a dead person. How does someone come back from the dead anyway, in real life (as opposed to in Night of the Living Dead)? Asking Buffy might get him in trouble, or impaled. Maybe Mr Giles is less prone to violence, though he has an air of Gibbs-like-intensity about him as well.

Nobody's what they seem, and he'll be suggesting that in future, Ducky should keep a stake taped under his autopsy table _just in case_. (Oh, he'll really never be able to watch another horror movie again.)

"They probably just use the regular version. It's evil enough," Abby grouses. "Why am I doing all this anyway? I thought you got the full story from the ICWS Agents?"

"Rule 3, Abs."

"Never be unreachable?" she asks, frowning. Gibbs pauses and mirrors her expression.

"You've got two Rule 3's, boss," Tony points out, ducking in anticipation of the slap. "Rule 3.2 is '_don't believe what you're told – double check_.' Maybe you should make that Rule 5 to avoid confusion in the futu… _yeouchh_!! Objection noted." Didn't duck low enough.

"Oooh!" Abby almost squeals with a slightly scary grin, "In the interests of double checking, did anyone save me some vampire dust? Because that would be the coolest thing ever, and anyone who _did_ happen to think of me," she says slyly, "would be instantly forgiven for _all_ past transgressions. Well, _most_ transgressions."

"McGee!"

"Bibbs! Er… Gibbs. Boss. Yes?"

Tony makes a note to arrange a poker game with McGee sometime. The man is an open book, and it might just be the easiest cleanout ever.

"Go get Abby some dust," Gibbs says knowingly, and McGee almost trips over his feet in his hurry to escape the awkwardness that's descended over the lab. It's much like the time he accidentally clicked the wrong tab on his browser and found himself showing his mother not the bio-mechanics website he'd just developed, but fifteen horrifying seconds of '_Patriot Dames_'.

"Rule 49," Tony mutters to the junior agent's fleeing back. "Gibbs. Knows. Everything."

* * *

_Tuesday, 0000_

_JC Academy, England_

If Ziva was expecting a room full of floaty fabrics, incense and candles, she would have been disappointed. Then again, her time with Buffy and friends has taught her to – how do you say it – expect the unexpected. So really, it should come as no surprise that 'Magic Central' looks surprisingly similar to Abby's lab, though without the mass spectrometer and with hundreds of unidentifiable jars of liquids and powders on a wall of steel shelves.

The brightly lit room smells like spice and sage, and though it's not entirely unpleasant it makes her eyes water and her stomach churn miserably. Something in the corner bubbles ominously, a cloud of violet smoke rising from the surface.

She tries not to stare at the jar of reptilian-looking eyes from her hesitant spot in the doorway as Buffy pushes gently past her and then stops so suddenly Ziva imagines she hears a squeal of brakes and sees skid marks marring the clean white floor.

Tony sometimes made her watch cartoons on Saturday mornings when Gibbs had disappeared from the bullpen. 'American history, power relations, it's all here, Zee-vah. See, Wile. wants to catch the Roadrunner, but the Roadrunner is just_ way_ out of his league."

He hadn't been amused when she'd suggested the strange wolf-like animal should simply get himself a sniper rifle and put a bullet through the fast running bird when it stopped to make that godawful sound. "What do they _teach_ children in Israel?" he'd asked, and she'd just stared at him.

"To survive." And he'd been quiet for a record twenty-five minutes.

The slight redhead straightens up from behind a cabinet and fumbles with her jars at the sight of Buffy and Ziva standing in the doorway. "Eeeek!" she says, as she juggles a jar of black slime and something that looks a little like vanilla beans, if vanilla beans were brick red with little stripes of white at the tips.

Given the tension that crackles alarmingly in the air, she's assuming that this is Willow.

"Uh… Buffy. Hi. Give me a sec to put these… elsewhere, and I'll be right with you," she says, dumping the jars unceremoniously onto a nearby countertop. Ziva eyes one of the jars suspiciously. She could swear she just saw something move inside.

"I didn't know you were on duty tonight," Buffy says cautiously, the two former friends eyeing each other with equal parts surprise and wariness. Ziva's reminded of a documentary she saw once, two lions circling each other and waiting for one to show weakness so the other could strike. It had not ended well for either of them.

Willow's fingers twitch and tiny blue sparks crackle in the space between her hands. "Well, I'm not, or at least I wasn't meant to be, but Anna had a… something else to do, so I volunteered to cover for her. If you want to, um, come back tomorrow or something, I think Ro's in at nine…"

She clearly wants them to leave, and Buffy glances from Willow to Ziva and sighs, but doesn't move. She beckons Ziva inside the door and Willow's eyes fix on her curiously, though without the recognition that most of the other staff and students have by now.

"We need a concealment spell, or a glamour or something," Buffy continues a little stiffly, and she explains the bare bones of the problem.

Ziva is well-trained in reading people, and as she watches Willow twitch and Buffy clench, she listens for the words beneath the words and decides that whether they realise it or not, both of them are far less unwilling to be in the same room than they make out to be.

It's there in the odd weighty pause and Willow's second-too-long wistful looks; the way they occasionally refer to something from the past or use words that make the other smile. As Buffy continues to talk the tension in the air clears somewhat, both women relaxing minutely as they debate the best option and how strong the spell will need to be, how to work around the pesky problem of other people needing to 'see' her at will, etc.

The words swirl around Ziva more nonsensically than English idioms. Flaxseed. Shadow vs Curtain concealment. Range limits and maximum power required to maintain. Eye of newt.

"Ziva," Buffy says suddenly, waving her closer. She shoots a quick glance at Willow who busies herself on the other side of the room, and then turns to say quietly, "Willow can do it now, if you want."

"Do what, exactly?" Ziva asks, because to be honest she has less idea what's going on than Abby does when confronted with a power suit and kitten heels.

"I'm not good with the witchy stuff," Buffy replies with a shrug, "But as far as I can tell, she'll put a spell on you, to change the way other people see you. Like, _you'll_ look in the mirror and see you, but when **other** people look at you, they'll see… someone else. Think of it as the ultimate game of hide and seek."

"…."

Buffy sighs. "Yeah, I don't really get it either. But we've done it before, when slayers get targeted by certain demons or whatever and need a disguise. It's safe, and I know it sounds wiggy but…" _Trust me,_ her hazel eyes say, and despite all that's happened tonight – or perhaps because of it – Ziva does.

"Okay," Ziva says after a minute's consideration. It's a far better option than the plastic surgery other officers of the Mossad have had to undergo when their cover has been blown. "Is it… will it be permanent?" _How will NCIS know it's me_?

"You'll be able to choose who sees you," Willow interjects from her spot at the sink, where she's grinding something with a mortar and pestle. "It's like… hmm. Okay, you know Facebook?" Ziva nods slowly, unsure where this is going.

Willow's eyes brighten. "Well, you have to 'add' your friends. Even if you know them, they can't see your status and stuff – just the outside page with maybe your profile picture and name and whatever. So… it's kinda like that, only your picture is different and you might want to change your name as part of the cover…" She flounders a little as the metaphor breaks down, but Ziva's pretty sure she understands how it works.

Buffy snorts. "If you 'poke' me, I'll pop you on the back of the head like Gibbs does, except with more force. Just so we're clear." She glances at Willow as the redhead giggles, and they share a smile for a second before they seem to realise who they're smiling at. Ziva files the exchange away for future perusal.

"If you make me a blonde," she says lightly to Willow, with a quick teasing glance back at Buffy, "I will not be impressed, and slayers are not the only ones who are trained to kill. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Willow says a touch faintly, a single blue spark escaping from her hand. "And holy jumping Jerusalem, you really know how to get your intimidate on," but she's smiling as she says it. "Okay, I'm all good with the grind-age and potions. Clothes off, Ziva." Her eyes are serious, and Ziva studies her for a minute.

"Oh!" Willow says, blushing hotly, "I mean, uh... jacket off is fine. I just need to put some of this goop on your," she waves vaguely at Ziva's collarbone area, "um, chest. Which is not at all naughty, though it might sound like it."

"Calling it 'goop' really does wonders for my confidence," Ziva mutters as she drapes her jacket over a chair. A headache is starting to beat a steady rhythm against the back of her eyes from the smell and the remnants of tequila in her system. Someone will pay for this; possibly Faith.

She wonders if little Ang still has the jar of slime.

"Sit down," Willow says gently in a calm voice, all traces of earlier nerves gone as her fingers dab a sticky something on Ziva's temples. It smells like charcoal and lemongrass, and Ziva wrinkles her nose in displeasure. A chair moves from behind her without anyone touching it and, surprised, she sits.

"Close your eyes if you want. It won't take long."

Buffy's eyes bore holes in her back, watching carefully as Willow mutters and dabs and circles Ziva, if the breeze that whips around her is anything to judge by. Time passes slowly and just when she's ready to call the whole thing off, her skin tingles where the paste is smeared and light dances behind her closed eyelids.

"'Kay. You're all cloaked up and ready to roll. Oh, and while you're here the spell won't work unless you want it to, to stop you getting staked – or ratted – by the students. Giles will get his huff on if that happens – too much paperwork." Willow explains how to lift the cloak for individuals, her eyes flicking past Ziva to Buffy every now and then.

"We done here?" Buffy asks a touch impatiently, before biting her lip and adding quietly, "Thanks, Willow. I'll… see you round. Since, um, we both hang out here and all."

"Yeah," Willow replies with slight surprise, "See you, Buffy. Ziva, wait a sec – " She presses something into her hand, a packet of herbs, and explains, "It'll help your headache. And don't worry," she says ruefully, her eyes on the space where Buffy was standing moments ago, "I'm not the poisoning type."


	13. Tread Softly

_**A/N:** References to the movie 'Equilibrium' are in the single quotation marks, and the movie itself is yet another thing on the list of things I do not own (It's a long list). You don't really need in-depth knowledge to understand the references._

_Warning for language in this chapter, though nothing more catastrophic than a couple of f-bombs. Hope you enjoy!_

* * *

"This is your show, Ziva," Buffy had said quietly before they left for Washington.

"If you're not ready for the big reveal, I'll do my thing at NCIS and you can just hang in the apartment, watch some Oprah and enjoy not having your personal space invaded by giggling mini-Slayers. Maybe drown your sorrows in a big tub of ICWS-sponsored Chunky Monkey? Whatever you want."

Why anyone would want to eat monkey, Ziva's not entirely sure. Then again, just a few days ago she'd been introduced to a friendly – if rather odd-looking – man named Clem who turned out to be a demon, proving that in Buffy's world, when you hear hooves it's probably zebras.

Zebras with an excessive amount of loose skin; reminiscing about the glory days of crypts and kitten poker.

"I am ready," she'd said with what she hoped passed for confidence. "It is time to grasp the bull by the antlers." Giles had opened his mouth to interject with a confused frown, only to be cut off by Buffy.

"People in pop-culture-proof houses shouldn't throw stones, Giles," she'd said with a disarming smile, then studied Ziva carefully before giving the nod to the witch, Anna. "Okay. Antlers time. Beam us up, Annie."

Hours later, clutching what Tony sometimes called the 'oh shit' bar of their nondescript rental as Buffy navigates through the streets of Washington, her heart is pounding wildly. The faint rolling nausea in her stomach has less to do with Buffy's abominable driving – even by _her_ standards – than the fear that this might be one mess that can't be undone.

Her earlier resolve to take whatever Gibbs and the others throw at her with her usual stoic poise is slipping away faster than sweaty palms on the dashboard.

"God, why they give some people licences is beyond me," Buffy grumbles as she changes lanes to a chorus of horns. "_'Buffy, you can't just keep magically popping in unannounced on our contacts_', Giles says. Right. Like to see _him_ try to drive in this mess. And hey, I've been meaning to ask, what's your name?"

"I….What?" Ziva asks blankly, then catches a glimpse of mousy light-brown hair in the car's side mirror as Buffy swears under her breath and takes a nearly-missed turn on what might be two wheels.

Willow had said that as long as Ziva was concentrating, she'd look in the mirror and instead of seeing the glamour that everybody else saw, she'd only see herself.

Obviously, she's not concentrating.

"Anne," she says, avoiding Buffy's concerned sidelong gaze. "Anne Perkins, Watcher. Born in England – " and thanks to another quick spell, she has the fake accent to support her fake background, " – in 1972, holds a Master's degree in classical history and linguistics from Oxford University. Recruited to the ICWS cause by one Rupert Giles in the spring of 2005…"

Ziva remembers doing this in her first months at Mossad, reciting the bare bones of her cover story aloud as she prepared for a new assignment. Before it became second nature to slip into someone else's skin like a cobra, poised and primed and ready to strike with fluid deadly grace.

"Ate Wheaties for breakfast on the morning of May 17th, 2007, with plenty of milk because hey, it does a body good," Buffy cuts in with a grin, throwing the car into a dizzying swerve to avoid crossing the median strip. They pull up sharply at a set of lights and she faces Ziva, touching her lightly on the shoulder.

"Y'know, it's okay to be scared. Even for badass ninja types." Her voice is heavy with wisdom borne from bitter experience, and Ziva stares at her and thinks not for the first time how much they're alike.

Except for the 'sacred destiny to kill demons' thing – though when it all boils down to it, Ziva was born and bred in the shadow of her father and wonders sometimes how much of her joining Mossad was really _her_ choice.

A horn blares behind them and Buffy glares into the rearview mirror. "Having a moment here, Grandma!"

Ziva can't help but laugh at the other woman's indignant tone. There's a slightly hysterical edge to it, and when she finally stops herself she realises that they're parked haphazardly on the side of the road and Buffy's sitting silently, waiting as Ziva breathes deeply and bites down on the rising hysteria.

Ziva stares at her hands, watching her fingers pick at the unfamiliar clothes uncomfortably. She's never felt less like herself in her life, and it has nothing to do with the fake face she's wearing.

"When Dawn died," Buffy says haltingly after awhile, breaking through the humming tension, "I forgot how to be afraid. We buried… what was left of her… and the next morning I went out looking for the nastiest, ugliest demons I could find. I was so angry at the world, so numbed by what had happened, I didn't tell Giles or Xander or even Faith where I was going." She breathes out a sigh, and it occurs to Ziva that this is the first time she's ever heard Buffy say her sister's name aloud.

Buffy looks out at the moving traffic, her hand tapping idly on the steering wheel. "I spent the next two months hunting and killing everything demon-y that I could find, without any backup or real weapons and a couple of times, so drunk I could barely stand. The more time that passed, the more risks I took. Now, I only ever took one Psych class, and the professor turned out to be a thundering loony so I'm not sure if this is right, but I'm guessing that the reason I did it was that I was trying to _make_ myself feel something. And y'know what?"

It's not really a question, so Ziva just waits.

"It didn't matter how many demons or vampires – or in one memorable case, a desert lion – I killed. The first time in two months that I felt something other than numb was when Xander showed up in the middle of a six-on-one vamp fight and got himself backhanded into a tree."

Having almost taken out a roomful of armed guards herself for similar reasons, Ziva can appreciate the sentiment of seeing someone you love – in Buffy's case, love like a brother – caught in the line of fire after something you yourself did to bring on the danger.

She'd woken up chained to a post in the middle of the fake facility that housed a fake Domino, with a thumping headache and the sudden revelation that this was it. She was _done_ with the dancing around and supercharged flirting, despite how comforting it was after months of _nothing_ during the Benoit op.

She wanted something more.

_I'm tired of pretending_, Tony had said to her angrily, and despite her initial flare of relief, seconds later she'd been glad she wasn't the 'Hollywood Confessions' type, because it turned out he hadn't really been talking about her after all. Or, as far as she could tell anyway, though for a moment there she'd seen _something_ in his eyes.

"Giles was pretty damn mad about my little… hiatus. Like, _Ripper_ mad, with the cold eyes and 'rip-you-a-new-asshole' expression. He still doesn't really understand the how and the why, and the one time he tried to ask again – just before the African op, actually – I shut him down faster than a nude run at a football game. Guess I should tell him the truth sometime, huh? Though he's a perceptive guy, so he's probably figured it out."

At some point during this part Buffy's started driving again, and the streets are suddenly too familiar for comfort. Ziva estimates that it's only another one or two minutes until they reach the gates of the Navy Yard, and from then... she doesn't want to think about it.

"I wasn't kidding before. Numb is okay as a short-term gig. But as someone who's been there; eventually it's gonna wear off and you'll realise you have, like, massive internal injuries. So if you're scared right now, _use it_. Fear makes you fight harder, cos it reminds you that you have something to lose. Like, say, _family_."

Ziva absorbs this quietly as they pull into the main gates with a squeal of brakes that sends the guards at the gate scrambling for cover, weapons drawn. Buffy groans and slaps her forehead with her hand. "And here I thought the 'sweeping motivational speech' days were over. Sorry."

"Apologies are a sign of weakness," Ziva replies automatically, then frowns, "Sorry. Reflex."

As far as speeches go, it was actually pretty effective. At the very least, it distracted her from taking out her knife and stabbing it repeatedly into the dashboard in equal parts frustration and fear, which she's pretty sure is not covered by their rental agreement.

"You realise that you just contradicted yourself completely, right? Way to stick to your guns, Z – Anne." She passes her credentials through the open window and shoots a winning smile at the guard. "Don't bother letting Agent Gibbs know we're coming," Buffy says brightly, taking back her ICWS badge and stashing it in the centre console as the man peers in briefly at Ziva and then shrugs without recognition, waving them through.

"Buffy, Special Agent Gibbs is not a man who likes to be surprised," Ziva says somewhat officiously, falling into her new – albeit temporary – role. She hasn't quite figured out the details of what Buffy calls 'the big reveal', and until she does she needs her old team not to notice that she is anything but her cover story. Watcher, along for the ride to complete her Coalition-mandated field support time, and not entirely thrilled by the idea.

_Some_ of that won't be too hard to fake.

"Yeah, I got that, Madame Watcher," Buffy replies sarcastically, her feigned impatience lingering for a minute before her face breaks into a slightly evil smile. "That's half the fun." She turns to Ziva and raises an eyebrow. "You freaking out?"

"Actually, no. Not any more," Ziva replies and is surprised how close it is to the truth. Concentrating on becoming Anne Perkins has shocked her back into something approaching field mode, and she finally feels like herself again. As long as she remembers the details of her story, and why she is really there, she'll find a way to get the job done as always, no matter what she has to do to survive it.

Hopefully this particular job doesn't involve commandeering any helicopters. It took the Russians eight years to get over that incident with the Kamov Ka-60, despite – or perhaps _because of_ – the fact that resulting story made her the stuff of Mossad legend. She's not sure she can wait that long this time.

"Okay," Buffy says quietly as they walk up to the entrance. "And, Anne?"

"Yes?"

"You might want to keep in mind that if you try to hurt anyone while you're wearing an ICWS badge, Giles is going to be very, _very_ unhappy with you. We'll do it the Buffy way – take a deep breath, memorise their name and face, and get one of the witches to send them a little surprise once we're clear of the area. Ka-peesh?"

"Actually, the term is…"

"Hey, do I correct _your_ English, Miss Bull-by-the-antlers?"

"…. Never mind."

* * *

"Whaddya got, DiNozzo?" Gibbs half-shouts impatiently, not even bothering to come down from the balcony overlooking the squadroom.

"Geez, who spit in his coffee this morning?" Tony mutters from his chair, rifling wildly through endless sheets of paper in the hopes of finding a promising lead. Or a lead at all.

Gibbs doesn't like loose ends; so despite Buffy's promise that ICWS would tie everything up from their end to keep the NCIS paper-pushers happy, he's still got them checking every Tom Dick and Homeless that Lieutenant Sachs might have met over the course of what seems to be several lifetimes of contact lists.

So far, they're coming up empty on John Doe. No fingerprints in AFIS, no hits on DNA or dental records… no matching missing person's reports. Nothing, except that once there was a man, and now there's a body without anyone to claim it. Except ICWS, of course.

Sometimes Tony really hates his job.

Desk work is right up there with the dentist and his bi-annual prostate exam – thanks, genetics, for saddling him with not only the world's _best_ father but the world's_ best_ family medical history, sarcasm fully intended – on his list of things to avoid like the…

Well, whatever it is that one avoids when they've already _had_ the plague. And yeah, he needs to get around to coming up with that alternate idiom soon. As soon as Gibbs goes back into his borrowed office and… _ouch_!

Damn, the boss has a mean aim. Pegged him with a ball of paper from one level up and across the staircase, and _not _softly. Tony rubs his head and scowls in the direction of the floor, grateful that Gibbs can't see his face.

"DiNozzo! What. Have. You. Got?" Other than an increased chance of developing Alzheimer's later in life thanks to all the head trauma, he's got zilch, nada, _bupkis…_ well, nothing related to the case. Although as it turns out, he's picked up quite a vocabulary of Yiddish terms from Ziva over the last four years.

"I got…" he stalls, shooting a pained glance at McGee who makes the both-palms-up signal for '_I got nothing either… take cover'_. The elevator dings and sweet Jesus he's never been so glad to see another person in his life as he is right now. "I got Buffy Summers, Boss!"

"Not without buying me a drink first you don't," Buffy replies with a grin, shooting a quick knowing glance at the stranger trailing silently beside her. "And even then, Agent DiNozzo, I'd say the odds aren't good." She perches on what used to be Ziva's desk and nods to Gibbs who's made his way downstairs and is leaning on the partition behind Tony's head.

Gibbs beckons Buffy away from the group and starts telling her about what the MCRT have uncovered (which should take all of two minutes). Tony's attention turns to the woman who came in with Buffy.

As women go – and he once was a purveyor of all things fine and womanly – she wouldn't stand out in a crowd.

She's fairly unassuming-looking; with shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, and a thin face that right now seems pinched and a little paler than might be normal. She's wearing a cheap navy blue power suit that looks a little like the stuff Kate used to wear despite his constant reminders that she could come to the office in jeans on weekends like he did.

There's something… odd... about the way she stands, with a casual feline grace that belies her pale, awkwardly long limbs. Familiar and yet not.

"Agent DiNozzo," he says by way of greeting, holding out his hand politely (someone has to always fill in the social pleasantries that Gibbs has little patience for) and studying her carefully. She hesitates for a second, and he wonders if it's possible that this is ICWS's version of Nikki _'I don't shake hands because of all the germs'_ Jardine.

She takes his hand with an impatient sigh as if it's the most painful thing she'll have to do all day.

"Anne Perkins, Watcher," she says coolly with a distinctive British accent, shaking his hand quickly before pulling away as if she's been burned. Tony wonders how on earth Buffy manages to work with someone who is clearly her polar opposite in the people skills stakes.

As the thought crosses his mind, Buffy glances over at Perkins with a cautiously guarded expression – almost worried – and Tony decides that maybe Buffy doesn't like it any more than he does.

"And you are?" Ms Perkins asks McGee somewhat stiffly, looking him up and down in the way that women who intend to be intimidating have a tendency to do.

Actually, now that he thinks about it he's only ever seen one person look at someone with that distinctive three-eye-movement gaze, as though she was dividing him into three separate sections – each to be appraised for their pros and cons. He pushes the thought from his mind; but not before his eyes flick over to his desktop, where he's set the picture of Ziva that Buffy had noticed (and commented on) as his background.

When he looks back, Perkins is staring at his computer with an unreadable look on her face. "Problem, Ms Perkins?" Tony asks dryly, wondering if he should pretend that his ex-partner is actually his current girlfriend in order to quell any lusty feelings the Watcher might be having about his person.

Which, given he's dressed in his best Zegna suit might be excusable, but still… there's just _no way_.

He hasn't been with a woman since… well, the unprecedented dry spell is turning into the Saharan Desert. Not that he's been on the prowl exactly, but _still_. Men have needs. Even ninja-whipped men, who since hearing the news, have been guiltily self-flagellating about their role in said ninja's death.

"N-no. No problem," she stammers, as Buffy watches the exchange carefully. The Watcher tears her eyes away from his screen (maybe she's admiring the view rather than checking out the competition?) and looks around the bullpen, but in a way that suggests she's not really seeing anything that she's not surprised by.

"Been in many offices like this one?" he asks doubtfully, knowing that he's deliberately baiting her but at the same time not really caring. (He wonders if having that thought means he should add a 'b' into his name somewhere). There's just something about her that gets his hackles up. Call it a gut feeling, but he's wondering if maybe he's met her before.

Someday he'll move someplace where he sees women on the street and doesn't have to wonder whether he's slept with them or not. Alaska's supposed to be a growing market, though there's no field office there. He thinks of Rota and wonders where he'd be now if he'd said yes. Where they'd all be.

Ms Perkins flinches when he speaks, and now even Gibbs is watching closely. "You could say that," she says with a little impatient _'I'm not talking about it'_ hand wave that he recognizes. Buffy does it as well, though someone else did it to him before her. He makes a note to ask Buffy later if ICWS has ever done any… consulting… with Mossad. That would explain the…

"You coming down to see Abby?" McGee says pointedly as he passes.

Tony will have to thank McGee later for snapping him out of his Ziva-daze and also for giving him a clue as to what he's missed. For this one – and the bonus of saving face in front of Buffy and her pet Watcher – he might consider not mentioning the newest Deep Six instalment for _at least_ a week.

"DiNozzo!"

He runs for the elevator and squeezes between the doors just in time, stumbling into Perkins as the closing doors catch his errant foot. He could swear he feels someone give him a gentle push from behind as he flails about. Tony hopes that it wasn't McGee, because if it _was… _he's going to handcuff him to the gate with only a feather boa for protection against the elements, and that experience could be life-changing (in a bad way) for_ both_ of them.

He manages to move so that he doesn't plow her down completely, and they end up pressed against the wall of the elevator, him with his face somewhere in the vicinity of her neck. Perkins lets out a sound that's somewhere between a gasp and a sob. Gibbs makes exasperated 'hrrmph-ing' noises from behind him and Tony starts apologising, then stops dead.

Karma is apparently taking great pleasure in biting him on the ass today, because holy crap in a flaming bag she smells like Ziva.

A heady mix of sweet and spice and something else new that he can't quite identify. After four years of breathing her in and trying not to be blatantly obvious about it, to smell it now on a complete – _and though he's not normally one to judge the movie by the cover art, somewhat unlikeable_ – stranger makes his head spin in a way that has nothing to do with his sudden complete loss of equilibrium.

He hits the railing hard on his way down.

'_In the first years of the 21st century, a third World War broke out. Those of us who survived knew mankind could never survive a fourth; that our own volatile natures could simply no longer be risked. So we have created a new arm of the law: The Grammaton Cleric, whose sole task it is to seek out and eradicate the true source of man's inhumanity to man - his ability to feel.'_

"Good movie, Equilibrium," he says in a bit of a daze, "though lacking the polish of the big budget films. They tried to eliminate feelings, and it was up to Batman… no, Christian Bale… to save everyone from being mindless Prozium-drugged autobot types. Crap fight scenes though, and some major editing screw-ups…"

"Get off me, Tony!" Perkins says sharply in a wholly un-English voice.

"Did I mention my first name?" he wonders aloud as someone grabs him by the back of his shirt and easily lifts him to his feet. "Wow, you really weren't lying about the whole Slayer super strength thing," he muses absently, still playing back the bullpen conversation in his head to check his suspicion.

The world spins, and when it stops he sees that Perkins is on her feet again, leaning against the wall with her eyes shut as if she's in pain. "Sorry," he offers weakly, ignoring Gibbs' glare. "We don't treat all our guests this way, I promise."

He glances back at her and blinks in shock, because for a second she fades and he sees dark hair and tanned limbs and when Perkins looks at up at his indrawn breath her eyes are dark and deep and clouded with indecision and fear.

Fuck, Tony wishes he had some Prozium right now.

His head is throbbing with confusion and given that he's hallucinating, possible concussion. Someone's hit the emergency stop button during the mad scramble, and the elevator is bathed in crappy half-light – which really isn't helping his vision any. Given the amount of time they spend in here, Gibbs really should request some better lighting.

"Holy shit," McGee stutters behind him, and it grabs Tony's attention only because the junior agent sounds like he can't decide whether to vomit or burst into song.

"_Ziva_?"

If Buffy wasn't still holding his shirt, Tony would be on the floor all over again. His Ziva-hallucination shifts awkwardly and nods, after almost a full minute of what he assumes is one of the mysterious secret conversation things between her and Buffy. He'll have to ask her how they do that, when he recovers from his concussion dream-world.

"McJoker, I swear on all that is holy in whatever universe you inhabit in your spare time, if you're fucking with me right now…"

"He's not," Buffy says quietly in his ear, tightening her grip slightly as if in warning, as Gibbs crosses the minimal space between them and stands right in front of Ziva, his eyes narrowed.

"Ms Summers, if this is some kind of trick…"

"I did not mean what I said at the airport," Ziva says quietly to Gibbs, though in the confined space the sound echoes, as does Gibbs' rapid intake of breath. "I have never doubted that I can trust you, Gibbs. I will understand, however, if you feel that you can no longer trust_ me_." Tony blinks as Gibbs stares at her for a long moment, considering, then finally nods and steps back without another word.

He'd almost expected them to hug, and from the hurt that flashes in her eyes perhaps Ziva did too.

Ziva.

_Ziva alive. Alive-alive-oh._

Ziva is alive and unharmed and standing only inches away from him, and he hasn't even unpacked his bags after their trip to Israel for her funeral. They're still sitting just inside the door of his apartment, waiting for him to decide whether to hang them up or burn them.

'_Be careful, Preston. You're stepping on my dreams.'_

"But… your father… he said… we saw…. autopsy report. We went to your _funeral_," McGee says hollowly, and Ziva's lips tremble almost unnoticeably.

"I suppose it should not come as a surprise that my father could be so cruel," she says heavily, her chin set tightly in the way that usually means she's trying very hard to keep her emotions in check. Her eyes keep flitting over in his direction and then darting away as though she's afraid to look at him.

Tony thinks of fire-lit skies, garbled facts and suppositions, and billowing smoke so thick and black he could almost taste it through the television. The feeling of his world turning over as she knocked him to the ground and put a gun to his heart. Clearing her desk and finding the little things – a handful of Scrabble tiles, photos of the team, a book on American film history – that Abby had refused to throw away, instead keeping them in a box in her lab _just in case_.

And '_just in case'_ is standing in front of him and instead of pulling her into his arms and burying his face in her hair; what he actually does is let out a strangled groan and start struggling against Buffy's tight grip, ignoring the sudden slow spin of his world.

"Tony," she says now, the object of his dreams and of his nightmares. Her voice breaks over the word like she can't believe she's saying it aloud and god he's never wanted to kiss her so badly, watching her lips as they shape his name. Buffy lets go of his shirt unobtrusively and steps back as far as one can when trapped in a tiny metal box with three sceptical NCIS agents, one slayer, and one… Ziva.

She's never really been definable (at least not by him), and he's not about to start now.

They eye each other warily for a moment and then she's in his arms, her chest heaving. Tony murmurs words _he_ can't even decipher into her soft dark hair, an overflowing babbling brook of shock and grief and all the things she's missed in the past days weeks _has it been months_?

No, not quite, though without her some days seemed to stretch for eternity.

McGee, Gibbs and Buffy are there but not there, and it's a good thing that Gibbs is a perceptive guy because if Tony hears _one crack_ right now about Rule Twelve he can't be held responsible for what will happen.

Ziva's grip is tight and his shoulder aches in protest but he's sure as hell not about to let her go… until her tears leak through his shirt onto the spot where not long ago she pressed her gun to his heart and looked at him with dark smouldering fire in her eyes.

Suddenly, he can't breathe through the furious assault of memories.

Earth raining down on the coffin as he breathed in the scents of dirt and tears and fresh pine damp earth desert sun, told her he missed her and that he was sorry and _oh god_, he said he **loved** her – except it wasn't her, really, it was _someone else's daughter_ burnt and twisted in the coffin below him, or maybe it was just _empty_ like her father's fucking _heart _and like everything else it was all just one big intentional clusterfuck of misdirection designed to screw with their minds and right now all he can feel is **fury**, burning its way through his gut like he's swallowed acid.

Ziva pulls back in his embrace, watching him warily like a caged bird watches a pacing cat.

Out, have to get out, can't breathe in here.

His breath tears out of him in short bursts and he pushes her away as gently as he can, hitting the emergency stop button off as the elevator comes alive with a flare and whirl of light.

Tony's pushing haphazardly through the doors before they even fully open, ignoring everything and everyone around him, concentrating only on his overwhelming need to find somewhere that he can _breathe_. Which is ironic, really, since he's spent the last however many days wondering how he's going to breathe_ without_ her.

Maybe the Tetragrammaton had it right after all.

At this moment, fleeing blindly through the entrance foyer like the coward his father always said he was, Tony can understand the appeal of not being able to feel.

_I have spread my dreams under your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams._

He bursts out into the harsh light of day on shaky legs, sinks to the ground and vomits the acid in his stomach violently onto the grass.

* * *

_I'm all sweaty-palmed and twisty with nerves, personally, since everyone's been waiting with varying degrees of patience for this part. Thoughts, questions and comments are most welcomed, and I'm ever so grateful to those who have reviewed already, or are thinking about it. *grin*_


	14. BandAids on Bullet Holes

_**A/N:**__ Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and the story so far – I don't think I'll ever get over the little bounce of excitement when Hotmail tells me 'you have xx new messages'. Also, you all totally brightened what has otherwise been an achingly long and very boring few days of forced confinement. A world of thanks._

_Dedicated to all the amazing people who take the time to review regularly. I won't name names because it's likely I'll forget someone, and that would be embarrassing. You know who you are._

* * *

Of all of them, Abby's reaction to the news that Ziva is alive was the one that stung the most, even if (afterwards) it was possibly the funniest thing she'd seen since Faith had tried to slay an errant cockroach at the breakfast table with a hash brown.

Bookended by McGee and Buffy with Gibbs leading the way, Ziva had stepped through the door clumsily as if her feet were on autopilot. Abby hadn't turned around, just continued typing at her usual mad staccato rate, her hair not in pigtails but in a single ponytail high on her head, the way Ziva used to wear hers sometimes.

Her voice had filtered through in between the keystrokes, the words short (tap tap tap) like the movement of her fingers.

"Gibbs, I don't know why you're here since I didn't even send you any subliminal messages, but while you're here do you think you could tell me – oh. _Oh_!"

She had leapt at Ziva like she was about to cling onto her like a little spider monkey, and Ziva had braced herself for it in surprise. It was only when Buffy stepped forward like lightning and physically put herself in between Ziva and Abby that Ziva had realised the truth.

Abby had gasped in not-quite-pain, and the makeshift stake had clattered to the ground as Ziva stared wide-eyed at the still-rolling stick of wood. McGee had cursed in Hebrew (at least she'd taught him _something_) under his breath, and Gibbs had… well, she wasn't entirely sure what Gibbs had done. She couldn't see him from where she was standing, and didn't dare turn her head to look.

"Can I trust you not to do anything stupid?" Buffy asked quietly, and Abby looked both offended and a little horrified, all at once. "Lesson number three: Never doubt a Slayer's spidey-sense." Ziva didn't quite get it, but then Buffy added, "She's not a vampire. I'd know, don't you think? Although you get a point for being prepared." _Oh._

She'd have laughed, but it turned out it _wasn't_ all that funny when she really thought about it.

"Well?"

Abby's eyes locked with Ziva's and she muttered something that might have been a yes. It was enough to satisfy Buffy, who let go and stepped back, still watching carefully. Ziva wanted to tell her that it was okay, that these people are – were – her family.

And then Abby stepped forward and slapped Ziva across the face, her eyes shining with hurt.

McGee choked on nothing, and Buffy made as if to step forward, but stopped when Ziva held out a hand.

"I deserved that," she said almost inaudibly. "Just like the last time."

And somehow at Ziva's words (or perhaps the sound of her voice) Abby's face went from being closed off and suspicious to stricken, and this time when she launched herself at Ziva, it was with a choked sob and a crushing grip like she was never letting go again.

"You're really here," she said with childlike wonder, then tightened her grip and leant in. "If you ever pretend to be dead again," she murmured into Ziva's ear, her voice bruised and determined, "I'll kill you myself."

Now, Ziva sits in Abby's lab listening as they bicker around her like she's not even here. Perhaps she's not, and any minute now Buffy will poke her and tell her to wake up, they're almost at the Navy Yard and it's time to go.

Once Palmer and Ducky had arrived and fussed and stammered (and in Palmer's case, tried very hard not to flinch when he offered her an awkward hug), she'd shot Buffy a meaningful glance and the slayer had left the room with a quick word in Gibbs' ear. Ziva hopes Buffy understood what she was asking – to check on Tony. Now she's alone in the room and they're all suggesting theories and asking questions at once.

It's too much. En masse, they are a formidable team, but overwhelming as hell and there are changes in them all that she doesn't want to admit she sees. Then again, she can't deny that she's not the same person they left on the tarmac in Israel.

In the elevator, Gibbs had studied her like she's seen him study case files sometimes, with quiet – almost frightening – focus in his discerning gaze. She heard what Ari said to him in the basement, years ago in what she thinks of now as the stagnant space between her two lives: assassin or agent, wielded or wanted.

It is true and yet not – Gibbs shares some similarities with her father, but he treats his team the way he does out of the fear of losing them, not for the purpose of using their skills to further his own agenda. The head slapping, the biting comments, his constant drive to make them better at what they do – anticipating, connecting, investigating.

She wonders idly if Mossad (and by extension her father, for how do you describe the man if you do not describe the mission, when the two are entangled right down to the core?) is looking for her. She's been wondering this for awhile now, though after hearing Tim's revelation that there was a funeral, she's not quite sure what to think. Part of the reason she didn't want to come back here as herself was from fear of putting the ones she loves in danger.

If Buffy hadn't suggested the glamour, she wouldn't be here right now, sitting in Abby's lab amongst the instruments and humming whizzing whirring machines.

If Buffy hadn't… well, the sentence has many endings, all of them more complex than the rest. Ziva files away a reminder to herself to thank Buffy (and by extension, her friends) someday soon, for more things than she knows how to voice aloud.

Without them… she would not be here. She would not be _anywhere_.

Once, she had lain broken and _done_ in a dark room. Stared dry-eyed at the cracked ceiling as a monster bit into her neck like a knife through butter, and she had come |thisclose| to begging him to suck her dry. At the time, that was what she thought she wanted.

Ziva's beyond grateful that she got the chance to learn how _wrong_ she was.

* * *

"Hey," Buffy says cautiously, suppressing the urge to wrinkle her nose at the smell of vomit. Tony's bent double against the outside wall, his eyes closed tight and his shoulders tight and tense with the effort to control his breathing.

"You okay?"

She's well aware of how stupid it sounds, but really what else is she going to say?

_It's not every day you get to see someone you love come back from the dead, huh? Pretty freaky stuff. Did you catch that Rangers game? Oh, and by the way, having that burrito earlier might have been a mistake. Looks like we're expecting rain.._.

Stupid, Buffy.

_Xander would know what to say_, she thinks with a frown._ Maybe_.

It was different for Xander and the others, though – they knew full well what they were doing (well, in a manner of speaking) when they brought her back. Planned for it, expected her arrival even though she hadn't been able to RSVP from Heaven. Like most things on the Hellmouth, it hadn't quite gone to plan, but still – they got what they wanted, and _they_ knew they wanted it in the first place.

Tony hasn't quite figured out _what_ he wants yet, and that's kinda why she's here – despite having the sudden sinking feeling that she's waded out into a stormy sea and promptly found herself way, _way_ out of her depth.

She's seen enough destruction for one lifetime, enough roads-not-taken. And besides, she kinda likes the guy and doesn't want to see him mauled by a Slayer (which is what Faith will probably do if she finds out that he hurt Ziva).

He grows on you, like fungus.

"Never better," he says hoarsely, straightening up slowly and lifting his chin in the direction of a wooden bench not far away in a deserted patch of lawn. "But I think I need to sit down for a minute." He doesn't look back to see if she's following or not.

"Tony – " Buffy starts to say as she falls in behind him, only to be interrupted mid-sentence.

"If you're about to apologise, don't bother." His voice slices through the air like a knife blade, though Buffy isn't entirely sure which one of them he wants to cut.

She watches as he lowers himself onto the bench, studying him carefully. His anger has faded a little, slipped back to simmer beyond the surface as disbelief takes the wheel. Buffy can practically see it spinning behind his eyes, twin pools of confusion and hope.

Oh, the anger's still lurking at the gate like a wolf, but at least it's taken up a supporting role. Until the next act, at least.

"Not planning on it," she says matter-of-factly and watches as he draws back in surprise. "Not that I'm not _sorry_ that it had to happen this way – and to be honest I'm not really sure of the why – oh, I'd planned this whole spiel so you wouldn't get so…"

"Irrationally angry?" he cuts in with an edge of sarcasm, not meeting her gaze. _Curtain goes up_. "Well, can't win 'em all." _Curtain goes down_. His eyes meet hers and soften, and she knows what' he's going to ask before he even…

"Where's… where's Ziva?"

Buffy wonders if he realises that he says her name like a benediction, like it's something soft and sweet and precious in his mouth.

"With Agents Gibbs and McGee, down in Abby's lab. They needed time to sort some stuff out." He nods, his brow creasing. _Don't we all_, she thinks. "I thought maybe you'd want – "

"A shoulder to cry on?" he says flatly, a hint of scorn in his voice. Buffy has to bite down on her impatience at not being able to finish a single. freaking. sentence. Rationally, she knows he's just projecting his anger (and look at her, all knowledgeable with the psych terms today) but it doesn't make it any less annoying.

"Haven't we already deja'ed this vu?" she asks under her breath, and sighs at his blank look.

Gibbs might be a good boss and a good agent, but his whole 'tough love' philosophy is a hard act to follow. _Wonder if head smacking is ranked acceptable by Giles' code of ICWS conduct,_ she thinks with a grin.

Probably no more acceptable than that time Faith got impatient with the former Prime Minister of Turkey and threatened to start cutting off fingers if he didn't let ICWS question his right-hand man over possibly running an underground demon organisation…

Which turned out not only to be true but that most surprising thing was that the PM was _his_ underling in the demon world. Faith got her wish, and Giles got a whole crap-load of paperwork. The Turkish government just shrugged their collective shoulders and announced another election, but the Watcher accompanying Faith had told Giles about the slayer's pre-demon-reveal comments and expressed his concerns about public relations.

Hence the 'why' of having a code, even if Giles didn't include Faith's suggestion of 'thou shalt not stake thy annoying Watcher wannabe tagalong.'

She settles for a dose of good old 'Agent Buffy' tact, which basically means saying exactly what she thinks, only with a slightly more winning smile than usual to hide the bite under her words. The same tone she uses with the bigwigs at Coalition meetings, actually. _I'm just a silly little girl who.. whoops, did I do that to your nose? Terribly sorry._

Well, maybe she better leave out the blatant hints of violence… just this one time.

"I was just gonna say I thought maybe you'd want a bit of perspective about this whole mess, from someone who's been there, done that. But – no offense – being interrupted all the time grates, and I've pretty much reached my daily quota of heartfelt emotional speeches, so why don't I just leave you to stew in your anger or guilt or whatever? Come find me if you've got questions."

The words come out less sympathetically than she was aiming for, but he doesn't strike her as the type that responds well to coddling and back-patting. Plus, she's learnt over the years that sometimes when people just don't want to listen, it's better to bail and let them deal in their own way than to break out the 'speech hammer' and start pounding them over the head with it.

_Sometimes_, unless they're threatening her rental deposit with their mad knife skills.

She spins on her heel and turns back toward the main entrance, hoping that in her absence nobody's snapped and killed anyone else. Ziva in almost full freak-out mode, two suspicious federal agents, one highly-strung lab tech, one adult Harry Potter type, and Ducky (possibly the least surprised of the group). _And a partridge in a bloody pear tree, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Spike snarks in her head._

Still, there are some battles that Buffy just can't fight. Ziva needs to sort it out alone, though she's not entirely averse to helping out with a few gentle pushes here and there..

"You died," Tony says slowly from behind her, like he's trying the words on for size. "Abby found a photo of your headstone on some demon website. You look…"

Buffy stops in her tracks, though she's not completely surprised. Someone's been doing their homework. Perhaps a little more thoroughly than she'd like, but points for tenacity.

"Pretty spry for a corpse? Yeah. Heard that one before. And if you wanna get all technical about it, I died _twice_." He does an almost comical double-take, and she shrugs. "Death is my gift, apparently. "

"Should've asked for store credit," he says with a hint of a grin, and the tension drains from him slowly. "Uh… sorry for being an asshole before. To have Ziva just reappear like that out of nowhere like… I can't even _think_ of a movie. It's a lot, y'know?"

Buffy nods her agreement, moving back toward him and perching on the top of the bench, feet planted on the seat. Her heels click on the wood as she shifts position (god, they couldn't provide couches out here?) and waits.

"How did – where was– when…" he says in a jumble, like his brain's moving too fast for his mouth.

"All excellent not-really-questions," Buffy replies, "which you should probably ask Ziva." Okay, it's possibly the most transparent attempt ever, but a girl's gotta try.

"Don't think she's in the mood to talk to me at the moment," Tony says bitterly, his thumb rubbing at a spot on his pants. "Things ended… badly between us. She pretty much said she wished I had died, which is a real mood killer."

Buffy snorts. "Yeah, which is why she was so nervous on the drive here that she practically put her knife through the dashboard on _four_ different occasions," she mutters just loud enough for him to hear, and then slips down onto the seat beside him with a little sigh.

"You're angry with her. That might be justified, I really don't know enough about it to make judgements. And okay, there's the whole '_Surprise! Back from the dead_' thing, but that really wasn't her fault. I _think_. I'm no magic expert, but I think Ziva got a little overwhelmed and sabotaged the spell herself by accident. Emotions and magic are like oil and water, and obviously someone – " and she shoots him a pointed look, " – is like her Kryptonite; they get too close and _wham!_ Supreme Mossad undercover skills just fade away, glamour or no glamour."

"Huh," he says, looking a little overwhelmed himself. "Out of interest, what was the actual plan? To get us all down into Abby's lab where we could talk about our feelings and sing Kumbaya?"

"God no," Buffy groans, wrinkling her nose, "I don't really know what Ziva was planning. Her show, her lead. Although if _your_ fantasy campfire plan included s'mores, I'd give it serious consideration." He snorts at something she's said and Buffy shrugs and decides not to ask.

"Speaking of, is there someplace half decent to eat around here? We skipped lunch travelling through time and space and whatever, and I could just _slay_ a burger right now."

"Yeah," Tony says after a minute, perking up noticeably at the mention of food. "Shouldn't we…" he gestures vaguely toward the building, and Buffy frowns, considering the possibility that there's currently a brawl going on in Abby's lab. Then again…

"I think this is one of those 'too many cooks' moments," she says slowly. "But you go ahead, if you want. I'll ask the lovely security man who tried to put his hands in sacred places if _he'd_ like an ICWS-sponsored lunch. Or something else that rhymes, maybe."

Ziva _had_ asked her to go and talk to Tony, after all, and Buffy's not at all worried about her ability to handle herself if things get ugly. Which she's pretty sure they won't, though she did make Ziva leave her knife in the car (just in case).

"So," she says conversationally as the two of them stroll across the lawn, "How long have you been jonesing for our favourite ninja?" Tony misses a step and stumbles.

It's almost too easy, and though it feels a little like she's channelling Cordelia, he lets out a bark of surprised laughter at her bluntness before going on the defensive. Laughter is better than anger-induced vomiting.

"I'm not – I don't… Gibbs has rules about agents fraternizing… We were just partners."

"And I'm the Queen of England," Buffy says with a smirk. "I saw the way you looked at her during your elevator grope-fest. You're in it so deep you couldn't dig your way out with both hands and one of those GPS thingies."

For a moment Tony looks like he's going to protest, but then he cocks his head and his expression clears like the sun breaking through the clouds.

"Yeah," he says with a tiny smile, "I guess I am."

* * *

"Well, I'm just saying that…" McGee says in frustration, throwing up his hands and pacing around the table where Abby usually examines evidence.

He's still the same McGee who tried to comfort her after Gibbs told her about the destruction of her apartment, but he has a new protective layer over his soft skin, and it hardens his eyes in a way she's not entirely sure she likes. Now as he argues whatever point he's making, his hands thud dully on the scratched metal. His reflection is distorted by the warp of the surface and it bulges and wavers as he moves.

It is not unlike the mirrors she remembers from the time Tony insisted on taking her to a carnival, to experience '_another good old American pastime, Zee-vah. Corn dogs and spun sugar and whirling around in metal cages until you puke_.' America has some strange ideas and dreams, but oh how she once wanted them for herself. Wants?

Now, they've warped and stretched like Tim's reflection, because she's not sure where she fits anymore.

Having seen their expressions as each of them reacted to her return, she can't help but wonder if this was a mistake. Oh, she understands all too well about shock; about traumatic events and reactions and letting things absorb slowly rather than dumping it all on a person at once.

She understands that they deal in evidence, in closing the case, in facts – and that no doubt the evidence that she was dead was flawlessly falsified and hammered into them until they had no choice to believe it was truth.

The head understands, but the heart is screaming.

And… she's really going to have to ask Willow _what the hell happened to the glamour, _though a little part of her is glad it did fail, otherwise odds are they'd still be calling her Perkins, nodding politely at her before getting into the details of the case while she trembled inside and tried to come up with the best way to word it.

They'd be calling her Perkins, and Tony would be looking at her like he couldn't believe how rude and uptight she was, but at least he would be _looking_ at her. At least _somebody_ would be.

Maybe she's really not here after all.

"Ziva?" McGee asks gently from a safe distance, and the concern in his voice makes her glance up and realise that they're all staring at her. And apparently, she's started crying without having even noticed. She swipes angrily at her face and takes a deep breath, staring down at the floor.

"My dear," Ducky says carefully from his spot near the refrigerator, "May I be so bold as to ask what happened?" She's grateful to him for the attempt to distract from her show of emotion, though _what_ a question. His eyes have the slightly calculating gleam that he gets when he's trying to trick people into doing exactly what he wants.

Behind her, someone lays a hand on her shoulder, and the heat of it bleeds slowly through her body. Ducky doesn't quite hide his smile quickly enough, and Ziva raises her eyebrows at him. Not her that was the object of manipulation, then.

"Duck, maybe another time?" Gibbs says from somewhere above her head, and she bites her lip to stop a sob escaping. He sounds like _Gibbs_ again, not a mistrustful stranger that she once used to know.

"Ziver," he continues in almost-reproach , "I thought I told you to take care of yourself."

"I tried, Gibbs," she says softly, and despite his words to Ducky she starts to tell them the same story she told Buffy and Giles, of undercover missions and capture and waking up to find herself in Hell on Earth.

She gives them the details in a flat voice as though the evenness of her tone will distract from the horror of the story, though she's careful to edit out all of the most disturbing parts. Gibbs' hand remains on her shoulder in support throughout, and once when she stops to choke on the memories he squeezes gently and she's suddenly able to continue again.

"Don't," she says uselessly when she finishes and they all immediately start talking at once, indignant and furious on her behalf. She's never loved them more than that moment when they swell and rage against those who seek to hurt her, despite all the damage she's caused. "McGee, Ducky, Abby… everyone, just stop!"

They cut off mid-sentence and stare. "You cannot change the past. It is done, yes? And I am sorry that you had to… that my father told you what he did, and I do not really know why, but… It is done."

She can't imagine her funeral; she wonders if her mother came from Russia for the ceremony, and wonders morbidly if the coffin was empty and if not, whose daughter is buried under a stone carved with her name?

"What now?" someone – Palmer? – asks, and she shakes her head.

"I don't know, Jimmy. Obviously I cannot come back to work for NCIS. For all intents and purposes, Ziva David is officially _dead – " _she tries to hide how much those words _hurt_, " – and therefore of no use to Mossad. I cannot be an effective Liaison Officer without an agency to liaison with."

Abby looks like she's just been reminded (again) about NCIS dress code, and McGee looks disappointed but not really surprised. He looks to Gibbs, an idea forming in his head. "Couldn't she come back as… Perkins, or something?"

"Not as a field agent. She'd still have to apply like everyone else, McGee, not to mention pass all the background checks and complete FLETC training. Also, you need to be an American citizen to be employed by NCIS, unless there are special circumstances such as a 'liaison' position."

"They specify in the rulebook that it has to be a _Mossad_ liaison position?" Buffy says thoughtfully from the doorway as all eyes dart to her. Ziva spins on her chair and looks at the slayer carefully, a question in her eyes. Buffy shrugs briefly and jerks her head backward, though there's nobody behind her. Ziva's lips tremble just a little.

"Ziva, you got a sec?" Buffy asks, stepping back into the hallway expectantly.

Abby makes a small sound in her throat and Ziva shoots her a reassuring glance. "I will be right back, Abby."

"Last time you walked out of here," Abby says with an edge to her voice, "the next I heard of you was a news report on ZNN saying that you'd been blown up. Well actually, it was Daddy Dearest who told us that via the most un-fun first MTAC conversation ever, but y'know, details."

Ziva fights the urge to sigh. Clearly, there are still a lot of things they need to work through, but she just doesn't have the energy at the moment. "I will be right back," she says firmly instead, and steps out the door and into the elevator with Buffy.

"Thought you could use some fresh air," Buffy says after a minute of silence, watching as Ziva leans against the wall in exhaustion. "It's gonna be like that for awhile, with the awkwardness and their panic every time you leave the room. It'll pass." It's hard _not_ to believe Buffy when she speaks with such confidence. "You okay?"

"Not really," Ziva says absently as the doors open into the foyer. Buffy leads her outside, leering at the overweight security guard who thanks to his wandering hands will probably be the recipient of a harmless revenge spell once they've signed out of the building. "I did not think it would be so…"

"Yeah, you did. That's why you were wigging out in the car."

Ziva touches her hair self-consciously. "Wigging?"

"Freaking. Getting your scare on. Sweaty-palmed. Whatever."

"Oh."

Buffy stops dead and indicates an empty bench under one of the trees that line the grounds. "Something Gibbs said gave me an idea, so I have to go make some calls despite the fact that it's oh-dark-thirty back in England. Giles'll probably be sound asleep and therefore fully expecting an apocalypse alert when I wake him up with whatever cheesy song Faith's set his cell to this week. 'Sexy Eyes' was last weeks' selection."

They share a knowing grin. The brunette slayer loves to tease Giles, and despite his offended front they've both caught him chuckling when he catches her in a scheme. Buffy points to the bench again. Subtle, she is not.

"You should go sit down for awhile, enjoy the fresh air."

"I have had plenty of fresh air during my time in – " And seeing Buffy's slightly exasperated glance, Ziva salutes sarcastically and makes her way over to the bench without argument.

She closes her eyes and breathes in the scents of afternoon sun and freshly cut grass, and becomes aware of someone standing close to her. His presence is familiar, and it makes her heart skip and stutter in her chest.

"I missed you," she says quietly without opening her eyes, and Tony sighs and sits down on the bench next to her. Their arms brush gently and when his skin leaves hers she feels cold. He doesn't acknowledge or refute her remark, and she hears the sound of palms rasping on cloth as she waits for him to speak.

"There's a lot to talk about," Tony says slowly and carefully, his voice calm.

"Yes."

Ziva shifts just a little, imagining she can feel the heat of his body pressed against her side. She hears the wooden slats of the bench creak, and winces slightly at being discovered. To her surprise, he doesn't pull away – if anything, he's closer than before and she can smell his shampoo and cologne and something that is undeniably just… Tony.

"Trust to be rebuilt on both sides."

_I forgive you,_ she thinks, but does not say it aloud. There's nothing like downtime between torture sessions to give you a bit of clarity. She did not love Michael, she was just infatuated with the idea of being _lovable. _And really, Tony did not do anything wrong other than try and 'watch her six' as best he could, and how could she fault him for that?

"Yes."

She doesn't dare to open her eyes, knowing that the second she does they'll likely overflow. Has he _always_ made her feel this out of control?

His hand cups her cheek impossibly gently and she leans into the touch, thinking that she's got another thing to add to the growing list of 'things to thank Buffy for.' A tear slides from under her eyelashes and trails slowly down her cheek despite her best intentions, and Tony wipes it away with the pad of his thumb.

"Zee-vah," he says with equal parts wonder and affection, as if he still can't quite believe that she's there in front of him. "I never thought…I'm so sorry that you… oh for fuck's sake, I'm channelling McBabble!"

Ziva opens her eyes at that, and looks at him carefully. "I certainly hope not," she says hesitantly, "because although I love McGee, I have never had the urge to do _this_ with him." Before she can lose her nerve, she leans forward and captures his lips with hers, because really there's just _no way_ things could get any worse, right?

It's a band-aid on a bullethole in the grand scheme of things, but it feels good to stop analysing and just lose herself in the moment.

They forget everything around them, forget that there are agents inside behind many many windows, no more than peeping toms with shiny badges; and catcalling sailors and random strangers outside strolling the grass. Hands clasp and roam with a knife-edge of desperation, lips meet and melt and part.

It might just be her imagination, but he tastes like corn dogs and spun sugar, like waking up from a dream and finding out that it's real, he's really there, you didn't imagine it.

_Oh god._

They clash with clumsy fingers and searing heat, Tony sighing into her open mouth as Ziva runs her fingers through his hair and down his back. His hand slides into her curls – he's always been _so fascinated_ by her hair– twirling the soft strands around his steady fingers as he lays a blazing trail of kisses across her jaw and down her neck.

She moans something in a rough voice that might be his name and might be a prayer and who really cares which because either way the sentiment remains the same.

She's kissed him before, but _never_ like this, and though part of her is mortified at such a public display of affection (even if to the outside world she still wears someone else's face), a larger and far more insistent part of her is screaming at her oh god oh don't stop, _don't stop_.

Ziva pulls back, breathing heavily and cursing her own rational nature, and Tony groans wordlessly and tries to reel her back in. _Hook, line and sinker._

Lips meet, soft and gentle this time like they've got all the time in the world for fast and furious. Ziva fights to keep the tears at bay and as if Tony senses this, he pulls her into him and wraps his arm around her shoulders, letting her bury her face in his shirt and shake quietly with the stress and emotion of the past couple of days.

When she's cried herself out and is red-faced and more than a little embarrassed, she tries to shift away. Tony's apparently having none of that. He drops a kiss on her forehead and tightens his grip on her; but doesn't press for details. She gives in and rests her head on his shoulder, wondering idly whether Abby has organised a search party yet.

There are still things to be said, and they're by no means fixed, but right now Ziva's content to press against him and bask in the sunlight filtering through the trees as the world passes them by, just a _little_ too bright around the edges.

"You realise that the entire base will be talking about your gripe-fest with the mousy brunette Englishwoman for the rest of the week, yes?" She says to bring them both back to reality, intentionally messing up the term so that she can hear him correct her in his laughing 'oh, you're adorably hopeless' voice.

Truth be told, it's been months since she made a genuine mistake – with him at least. (She finds it hard to follow Buffy and her friends' odd speech patterns sometimes, and it confuses her). You don't learn the best part of ten languages without having an ear for the small nuances of speech, and she mangles her idioms more to get a reaction from him than anything else. He doesn't disappoint.

"It's grope-fest, Zee-vah, and what can I say? I'm the office stud." He gooses her in the ribs playfully, "And since you brought up groping…"

She pushes his hands away, laughing throatily. "Now is not the time _or_ place, Tony."

"Didn't seem to bother you five minutes ago." He shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. "You're staying around for a bit, right? I mean, I know Buffy's got that case to sort out, but you don't have to go do… whatever it is you've been doing for the past couple weeks?"

Instead of replying, she tilts her face up to him and pulls him into a long, searing kiss.

They've always communicated better without words anyway.

* * *

_*Sigh* This turned into some kind of freaky hybrid of 'shades of almost-smut and angst' and 'comedy noir', almost against my will. Muse is not happy with current narcotic-affected working conditions, and has certainly staged a protest strike on all things 'Smoke'. (Drugs are bad, mmmmmkay?)_


	15. Tea and Sympathy

_The first part of this chapter actually takes place before the__** last**__ chapter time-wise (though it doesn't mess with NCIS continuity or events at all…) due to the author being overly anal about not posting when things don't 'sound' right. Vance and Eli = hard nuts to crack. _

_We then resume our regularly scheduled programming in Washington, picking up a few hours after where we left off in Chapter 14. Hope it's not too confusing… Drop me a line if it is, and I'll make you a pretty flow chart or something._

* * *

_Tuesday, 1500_

_Tel Aviv, Israel_

Two powerful men sit in thoughtful silence and study the reams of paper spread seemingly at random on the heavy oak coffee table. Buttery streams of sunlight pour in through the window as if in defiance of the solemn air in the room.

Forgotten tea cools in the heavy silver pot and pastries lay untouched on a little china plate, the dainty edging on the crockery alien and out of place cupped in strong broad hands.

These hands once brushed dark curls from a newborn's forehead, gazed into unfocused eyes and marvelled at the sense of promise a child brings into the world. Their daughters – one shattered and gone years ago, one recently lost and freshly mourned, one young and whole and innocent still – were once the reason they fought to make the world a safer place. Perhaps they still are.

"Eli," Vance says in a level voice, examining a document carefully, "I'm not sure I understand what this means. Whose interests do ICWS serve?"

"They are on our side, my friend, though they are waging quite a different war. Anything beyond that, you do not need to know at this point. What I suppose I am asking is, do you trust me enough to take what I am saying as gospel for the time being?"

Vance considers the statement, weighing his options carefully. He misses the days of field operations sometimes, when everything was movement and reflexes and speed of takedown.

_Echo Four, you are a go. Green light, Echo Four. Confirmed. Go, go, go! Shots fired on level seven, one casualty reported, man down man down fall back. Local LEO's on route, ETA 3 minutes. Echo Four, your cover has been compromised. Retreat to specified location and await further instructions._

Now, there are multiple consequences to weigh and political factors to consider. A man cannot simply flip a coin anymore and choose heads or tails. If he chooses heads, will it lead to innocent deaths or just a bureaucratic nightmare? Tails: your daughter disappearing before your eyes, or another successful mission in a stellar career.

Sometimes, the coin flips so fast in midair that you can't predict which way it will land.

_Heads, I win. Tails, you lose. _

It's been six years, but suddenly he has an overwhelming craving for a cigarette. Toothpicks are a poor substitute for the dizzying rush of nicotine in moments like these.

"What role did Ziva – " he realises his mistake as the other man's eyes flare at the familiarity and corrects himself quickly " – _Officer David_ – play in this operation?"

For a minute, Eli looks as though he is going to refuse to answer, then he sighs and starts talking.

"She participated in the raid of what we shall call Camp A, in Eritrea, along with a team of twenty Mossad operatives. The raid was successful by all accounts, though information we gathered from the survivors suggested a second and possibly third cell existed elsewhere. Officer David was given an undercover assignment, tracking a suspicious weapons trail in Eastern Europe. We had reason to believe the two were linked."

He pauses and rubs his temples, his long fingers digging into his skin. Whether his purpose is to alleviate or inflict pain, Vance can't tell. His voice is leaden with regret when he continues.

"On the morning of her fourth day in Moscow, she failed to report in and ignored all efforts to make further contact. I assumed she had gone underground to protect herself, until we received electronic communication from an unknown source, originating from somewhere in Somalia."

He indicates a crumpled pair of pages, bearing photographs of what is unmistakeably Ziva. A graphic novel of interrogation brutality; the images move from innocuous photos of her merely restrained in a chair with defiant eyes to the final image which shows her curled on a stone floor, beaten almost beyond recognition.

Despite his misgivings about Ziva's actions surrounding Officer Rivkin's death, Vance can't help but recoil from the sight. "Eli," he says heavily, "I am sorry for – "

"There is no need for apology," Director David says sharply, "Officer David understood the dangers of her chosen profession. Mossad does not negotiate with terrorists."

His face trembles almost unnoticeably with the effort of controlling the mask, and to anyone else it would sound as though he was writing his weekly expense report, not talking about the fate of his own flesh and blood. Vance, however, has known the man too long to be fooled by the façade.

"And yet you practically tore apart Somalia in your search, according to my contacts in Mogadishu."

"We received vital information about a second camp – Camp B – shortly before her disappearance. She had collected and tracked a number of shipping receipts originating from different ports to a location just outside of Berbera. However, by the time we deciphered the data and assigned a team to investigate, the bastards had foreseen our arrival and moved to another location. The activities we had been monitoring in Europe were promptly shut down, and we had no way of gathering information through normal channels."

"I don't see how ICWS became involved in this. According to my sources, the agency is based in London and deals fairly specifically with corporate training, information gathering, a couple of scholarship programs. Small-time stuff."

"They also have a division that specialises in covert and… how shall I say it… somewhat unusual operations, Leon. It may interest you to know ICWS have written operational approval from almost every major government organisation in the known world, and a skillset that is beyond even your imagination." Eli shrugs, picking up his empty teacup and turning it over and over in his hands.

"In any case, they occasionally approach us for armed support and… well, what is essentially clean-up duty. Their Director, Rupert Giles, notified me that there was some unusual activity near Bambuco, and since there was already a team in the area…"

"Ah," Vance says, comprehension dawning, "You thought that Director Giles and his people had stumbled onto your elusive third cell."

"A gamble, certainly. Either way, I did not see the harm in investigating further."

"And Officer David's name was on the list of personnel because…"

"Appearances. I wished for the news of her capture to be kept a secret. It was no problem to include an extra name on a few lists. My officers are loyal to me, Leon, and Officer David had something of a… reputation… within the Institute. It was no trouble to get them to agree without question."

Vance studies his friend closely. "Why go to all the trouble to pronounce her dead?" He can't help but think of Gibbs and his team and the shell-shocked air that had hung around the bullpen since they'd heard the news. He's torn between sympathy for his long-time friend and anger on behalf of his agents.

Despite his fancy suit and still-new title, he remembers the grief that comes from losing a fellow team member and close friend.

"One of my operatives discovered _this_ in the wreckage of what appeared to be underground holding cells." Eli pulls a glimmer of gold from his breast pocket, and even without studying it closely Vance recognises the Star of David hanging from the blackened and tangled chain.

"She was held there at some point, then," he says thoughtfully. "And then –"

Eli holds up a hand to cut him off.

"What we did _not_ find was _any_ substantial trace of remains that conclusively matched Ziva's dental records, DNA nor blood type, though they found several badly burnt bodies in the vicinity. Mossad has enough physical evidence on file to meet certain… requirements… to confirm death."

_Or to falsify it,_ Vance thinks, but doesn't say it. He has never judged Eli, and despite his discontent with the whole situation he's not about to start now. He saw the copy of the autopsy reports – which he now knows aren't worth the paper they're written on – just like Gibbs and his team. Given the new revelations, however…

"You think she's still alive." It's more a question for the father than the Director, though sometimes Vance wonders if Eli has forgotten the difference.

"I am not a man who believes in miracles as a matter of course," Eli says slowly, his eyes straying to a photo behind his desk, "But then, Ziva's birth was something of a miracle in itself, so the answer is that I do not know, Leon. I do not believe she died in that camp, but her whereabouts are as yet unknown." His increasingly brittle tone indicates that the subject is no longer open for discussion.

Vance checks his watch absently and stands, placing the photographs of his former Liaison Officer gently down onto the table as though the force of his action could make a difference to her fate.

"I've got a plane to catch," he says as Eli rises to meet him. "Have to make sure Agent Gibbs hasn't burnt the place to the ground in my absence."

"You will consider my request, Leon?"

"I'll let you know. Keep well, Eli – and good luck."

"Shalom, my friend."

It occurs to Vance somewhat belatedly, as he's waiting for the plane to begin the slow taxi down the runway, that he failed to ask Eli what the terrorists wanted in exchange for his daughter's life.

_At what price freedom?_

As a father, Vance would give up the world. As a Director – even as a Field Agent – the waters become infinitely murkier the higher up the chain you move. Save your kin and possibly damn your country, or protect your country and sacrifice your daughter?

_Heads, you win. Tails, I lose._

* * *

_Tuesday, 1700_

_Washington DC_

"Whenever Giles tells me to start looking at rentals, I still can't help but think handbags," Buffy muses as she uses her foot to open the sliding door onto the ample balcony. She sinks into a chair with a groan and hands Ziva a steaming mug, cupping her hands around her own and looking out over the rainy city. "Not bad for a last minute find, huh?"

Ziva nods her silent approval, staring down at her tea. Beside her, Buffy snorts and offers her own mug in exchange. Ziva shakes her head slightly and the mug is withdrawn with a grin.

"Whatever you've heard about my cooking, it's all filthy lies. I mastered the tea-making thing in high school, anyway. One of the many by-products of having a stuffy Englishman for a pseudo-dad. Thankfully his fashion sense didn't stick."

She shifts in the chair and eyes Ziva thoughtfully. "We might have to order in tonight though, since I'm not keen on going out in this downpour to find the local grocery store. As for patrolling…ugh, if there was ever a time for a raincheck, now would be it."

"You are still going patrolling later?" Ziva asks, tucking her hands into her sweater and wrinkling her nose at the rain. She's forgotten how miserable rainy Washington days can be.

"Uh, yeah… demons don't really care about getting their hair wet," Buffy says, though she doesn't look like she's entirely thrilled by the idea. "I'm more reliable than the U.S. Postal Service. Neither rain, nor snow, nor heat, nor gloom of night shall keep the Slayer from her appointed kick-ass-take-names duties. Unless you think I should send, say, Palmer?"

They share a grin. Buffy appears to have developed quite a soft spot for the Autopsy Gremlin, though given that he is more or less petrified of the slayer and prone to babbling and knocking over things while she's around, Ziva can't imagine why. When questioned, she just muttered something about him reminding her of someone she used to know.

"Not if you want him to live," Ziva replies lightly, sipping her tea. It's surprisingly good – not that she's a connoisseur or anything, but she can tell the difference between a proper pot and a teabag job – and she says as much.

"Told you so," the blonde says with a smirk, which fades into a sheepish grin. "Uh… that cooking thing might have been approaching the truth though. I actually am pretty terrible. And if you tell anyone that I admitted it, _especially_ Giles or Xander, I won't hold back with the Slayer strength next time you want to spar – Krav Maga techniques be damned."

Ziva laughs out loud at the empty threat, even more so as Buffy pretends to pout with hurt at not being taken seriously. Despite the emotional rollercoaster of the day, she's feeling lighter than she has in awhile, relaxing on the balcony of the newest addition to the ICWS real estate rental portfolio.

Which, incidentally, has a massive kitchen (though the only thing in the house at the moment is a lone carton of milk and some slightly stale vending-machine crackers).

"I can cook," she offers, and Buffy sighs in relief. "Perhaps not tonight though," Ziva adds, staring out at the familiar skyline and wondering idly what Tony's doing right now.

The MCRT had caught a case in Virginia late in the afternoon, investigating the potential murder of a Navy Seaman. With nothing much to do other than hang out in the empty bullpen or be practically smothered by Abby, Ziva had been secretly a little glad when Buffy came to let her know she was heading back to the apartment.

She loves Abby, but she also loves her personal space, and after the day's events she's utterly exhausted. Actually, she'd love to curl up in bed with a book despite the early hour, but though the Coalition thought to provide temporary furniture and hook up the internet while they were at the Navy Yard, the bookshelves remain bare.

It's about time she started replacing the other things she lost in the explosion, now that the hardest part is done.

"So I heard an interesting rumour today," Buffy says with a little sideways glance to check whether she's listening or not. Ziva raises an eyebrow at her.

"Scuttlebutt – and _who_ came up with _that_ name? – in the squadroom is that one _Very_ Special Agent DiNozzo was seen…" she flutters her eyelashes dramatically like a squealing teenage girl seeing Twilight for the twenty-first time, "oh-moi-gaawd tooohhtally making out with, like, some mousy_ loser_ woman. Like, in public and everything. Like."

Then, in a normal tone and off Ziva's affronted look, "Well, you _did_ say you didn't want to stand out in a crowd, Z. Anyway, it took awhile to translate through all the pseudo net-speak… and _now_ I understand why Giles used to get that glazed look when we talked. You do it too sometimes, did you know that? It was harder to follow than War and Peace."

"I found the French translation the easiest – I do not read Russian…" Ziva adds absently, then stops herself. _Show off._

Buffy slaps Ziva lightly on the shoulder and narrows her eyes. "Show off. You didn't think the Tony developments important to mention to your Fairy God-Slayer because _why_, exactly?" Ziva's pointedly averted gaze and faint blush is all the answer Buffy needs. The slayer hoots delightedly and Ziva can't help but grin a little at her enthusiasm.

"Hey, I have to live vicariously where I can, given my complete lack of love life. It's like I'm wearing a sign that says '_I'm available. Go away.'_" Buffy sets her long-empty mug on the glass table with a clang and sobers. "While we're on the subject of NCIS, and employment in general… well, Giles normally does all the recruitment stuff, but I'm pretty sure we can skip at least the first three hours and cut to the chase."

"Yes," Ziva replies immediately without waiting for a question.

Buffy blinks twice. "Wow, you cut right to the bone, don't you? Okay, say I'd offered you a tiresome, mostly thankless, sometimes downright boring job with a fair element of danger and a lot of pesky physical activity. And if you're like Giles, high odds of repeated concussion, though that doesn't happen as much as it used to."

She frowns, drawing her knees up onto the chair. "I'm thinking that this isn't the most winning recruitment speech ever, but you've been around us enough to have some idea of what you're getting yourself into, I guess."

"Buffy," Ziva says with a trace of exasperation, "The answer is still yes, no matter how much you try and convince me otherwise. And you are right – your recruitment tactics are definitely in a team of their own."

"League, Ziva."

"Whatever, _Boss_." It doesn't seem to fit quite right somehow, though it amuses both of them no end. "What exactly _is_ the job?" Ziva asks, remembering their conversation earlier with a flicker of hope.

"We need to talk about that, actually. Officially, you'd be a Watcher, but the job description is pretty flexible. I had a chat with Giles before – apparently the newest ringtone a la Faith is '_Thank God I'm a Pubic Hair'_, by the way – about negotiating some kind of liaison role with… is it Director Vance?" Ziva nods.

"Giles agrees, especially in light of the recent demon activity here. Gibbs said he's due back in the office tomorrow, so we'll have to arrange a visit. The problem is," Buffy says slowly and carefully as Ziva stifles a sudden yawn, "I'm not entirely sure that it should be you."

"You want me to defend my suitability for a position that does not even exist yet?" Ziva asks incredulously.

"No need to get all flashy-eyed with righteous indignation. I know you can do the job. I just don't know if you _should_. Case in point, you barely held up the glamour for half an hour, let alone day in day out under the watchful eye of a certain Director. No offense – I'm sure you're awesome at normal undercover stuff, but honestly, this is a whole different ballgame."

Ziva doesn't quite understand, and her confusion must show on her face because Buffy's expression softens. "Magic is unpredictable enough on its own," she begins, with only a trace of bitterness. "Willow put the mojo on you, but you're the one that keeps it going. That's probably why you're so tired. Magic + emotions = a world of bad. Giles' theory is that we had our little elevator surprise because you got overwhelmed and diverted your energy elsewhere. Understandable _and_ suitably dramatic, but to keep it up day in day out… well, you'll be a zombie."

Ziva's been wondering about that herself. She's still not entirely sure how it works, the whole magic thing, but Willow must have made the apartment some kind of 'safe zone' because the minute she stepped through the door something lifted from her like shedding a wet heavy coat.

She likens the feeling to the exhaustion of a full day of combat/weapons training, but in reality she's been either sitting down or simply standing around most of the day. Nothing strenuous enough to produce this reaction, certainly.

However, the tug of disappointment is too strong for the heart to ignore, despite her head seeing the logic in it. "Could we at least try it?" she asks quietly, and Buffy shrugs.

"Well, I don't see the harm in it. If Vance gives it the green light. And if he doesn't, Phillip will probably be able to convince him that it's not the best idea to piss ICWS off. Never know when you're gonna need our help. Like, say for example a demon horde is about to paint your city red. Or there's a prophecy about a new and terrible power rising. Y'know, emergencies like that."

Ziva stares at her disbelievingly. "Hypothetical emergency, or actual possibility?"

"A little from column A, a little from column B. But don't worry too much, these things always sound all fire and brimstone and sometimes when you look closer? Itty bitty fear demon."

"Oh."

"What, did you think I only came here for the shopping?" Buffy stands up suddenly. "There'll be time for all that when Giles gets here. He loves doing the exposition bit. Right now, we have an important decision to make." She looks at Ziva meaningfully.

"Italian, or Chinese?"

* * *

_Warning: Plot approaching… proceed with caution! *__bounces up and down__*** **__(Oh, that was a bad idea… ouch)_

_I've said it before and I'll say it again. Reviews are welcomed and adored. Flames are __**not**__, especially private, emailed or anonymous flames. That's just gutless. They will be used to toast marshmallows for my breakfast (because I too can be callous and strange). If you're wondering what this refers to, click the link to my LJ (possibly on profile page?) at your own risk. _


	16. The Best Medicine

_**A/N: **Sorry for the long wait between chapters. RL = complete and utter madness. Thanks for your patience, and I hope you're still reading... ;)_

Also, I personally dislike reading big chunks of italicized text, so I'm choosing not to italicize the middle flashback-esque part. Hope that doesn't confuse anyone.

_Thanks ever so much for all the story alerts/favourites/wonderful reviews. They totally make my day._

* * *

"I'm gonna take a stand and say that the extra serve of Kung Pao was a mistake," Buffy groans as she leans back into the sofa, propping her feet up carefully among the scattered containers on the coffee table.

"Perhaps if you had a little more willpower, you would not be feeling so ill right now," Ziva replies with a grin, toeing off her boots and curling her legs underneath her.

"Hey, descended from a long line of mystical warriors here," Buffy shoots back, eyeing the lone dim sim speculatively. "I'm a mammoth-spearing hunter at heart, just without the loincloth and chock-full of added MSG goodness." She smoothes her hair and snags the dim sim, ignoring Ziva's knowing chuckle.

"So, how 'bout that local sports team?" she says around a mouthful.

Ziva gives her a confused look that is pure early-Giles. "You want me to change the channel?" Onscreen, a pale-faced pretty boy type pushes an oncoming truck out of the way of a dark-haired girl, and Buffy rolls her eyes in response to the clip, catching the remote and flipping through channels in a blur.

"Puh-lease. How can Bella not see the creepiness of Sir Sparklepire? I could totally kick his shiny marble butt all over that parking lot."

"Love is blind?" Ziva offers sceptically, having heard earlier Scooby rants along these lines.

"They have tanning booths in _malls_ for that kind of blindness now. Someone should contact Stephanie Meyer's people and offer her a one night only intro into the demon world. She'd soon change her tune after seeing a few of the _real_ 'lonely ones'."

"Some coffee with your grousing?" Ziva asks lightly, rising from the overstuffed armchair and gathering an armful of plastic containers.

"Negative. I passed 'nicely full' three commercials ago and am on the slow and ugly slide into 'food coma'."

The air crackles and hums and there's a crash of containers on tile and a sudden strangled gasp. Buffy doesn't turn around, just snorts. "By the way, Giles said he might swing by around now. When he gets here, maybe you could _not_ go for his throat with that knife I know you have concealed on your person?"

"As always, Buffy, your timing is impeccable," Giles says faintly from behind her as Ziva stammers out something that might be a sheepish apology. Buffy heaves herself up from the couch and pads into the kitchen as Ziva sets the knife on the counter and retreats.

"Next time you might think twice before giving me the lecture on inappropriately popping in our contacts, Watcher-mine. Ninja types? Not big on the surprise appearances."

"Duly noted," he says in response, eyeing Ziva with a hint of amusement. "In the interest of you not ending up as a vase of gerberas, I should warn you that Willow and Xander will be joining us shortly." He looks at Buffy apologetically. "While I am fully aware of your grievances, Willow is the only member of the Magic Department not currently tied up with other projects."

Buffy shrugs in a passable attempt at not really caring, ignoring Ziva's questioning glance. "The mission is what matters, right?"

Neither of them are fooled by the hollow words, but to her relief they don't press the issue. She's surprised that it doesn't sting more when the back of her neck prickles in response to the second influx of magical energy and Willow steps out of the bathroom hesitantly. In the interest of not making this any more uncomfortable than it already is, Buffy even finds herself giving her former best friend a tight smile.

Giles better be suitably impressed by her ability to play nice.

"Hey, Buffy," Willow says with a little nervous wave. "Ziva. Sorry we're late. There's a clan of vampires terrorising people in Bristol; and, um, I couldn't find my other shoe. Can't talk strategy with my toes all exposed. Uh, Xander is just…"

"Wouldn't go in there for awhile," Xander says sheepishly above the flushing of the toilet. "Something about being thrust through space and time like a rag doll kinda makes me want to – "

"Xander's bathroom urges aside, shall we get down to business?" Giles interrupts hurriedly, his fingers twitching - probably from the effort not to remove his glasses and set to polishing.

Xander shoots Buffy a triumphant grin, looking around the still mostly bare apartment. "Love what you've neglected to do with the place, ladies. It's very Zen and the Art of Minimalism."

"Says the person who tried meditating _one time_ and nearly set the house on fire with all the supposedly necessary candles."

Xander shrugs. "Hey, a man can't help it if he's relaxed by the scent of slug. Just doing my part to keep up with the master of property damage. Speaking of which, one day I'll have to start charging for my services."

"Didn't know you thought so fondly of your Oxnard days, Gypsy Rose Lee," Buffy returns with a smirk. "And remind us again how the rest of that story went?"

"No power on this earth," Xander says firmly amid the laughter, but he's smiling.

Willow snorts in tandem with Buffy, and their eyes meet for a moment in shared mirth at the memory. Giles mutters something to Ziva that sounds very much like "the earth is doomed," and though he means it lightly Buffy can't help but recoil a little from the reminder of how things used to be.

It's easier than she ever imagined to fall back into the old routines that kept them alive and relatively sane through the madness of Sunnydale and for years beyond it. There's a reason that she has a reputation as one of the strongest and longest-living Slayers in history, and it's not entirely because of her fighting prowess.

It's not really the what, or the how. It's the _why_.

Willow and Xander continue to banter as Giles watches them with a hint of exasperated fondness clear on his face. During her distracted musing, Ziva has crossed the room and now stands beside Buffy with a thoughtful expression on her face.

"If I am not explicitly needed for the strategic part of the evening, I think I will go for a drive," Ziva says quietly as the others laugh, thankfully oblivious to the fact that Buffy's no longer playing the 'remember when' game. "I can catch up on what I have missed later, yes?"

Guess she's not the only one thinking about the _why_ tonight.

"Go," Buffy replies, fairly sure she knows where Ziva is headed and not about to discourage it. Just because she's not quite ready to forgive Willow doesn't mean that someone shouldn't get their happy bonding moment tonight. "If we need you, I'll call."

Ziva nods and lifts her jacket from its place on the kitchen counter, snagging the keys from the hook near the toaster. The dark-haired woman turns and starts for the door as something Buffy said to Tony said earlier pops into her head.

"Ziva," Buffy calls lightly before her friend disappears out the door, "If you feel the need to blow off some steam, try not to take it out on the car. Our insurance agreement doesn't cover ninja road rage, and the horror that is public transport makes for a cranky Slayer."

The closing door punctuates Ziva's laughing reply, and in the sudden silence Giles develops the urge to clean his glasses. Buffy's suddenly glad she doesn't understand Hebrew.

Willow frowns. "Something… _my ass_. Something. Okay, admittedly my Hebrew skills are more rusty than trusty and I only heard the 'ass' part, but did Ziva just invite Buffy to kick her ass? Cos, y'know, the last time somebody – oh. Oh! It could be _kiss_. Kiss my… shutting up now."

"This might be a somewhat novel suggestion, but perhaps we could move on to discussing the matter at hand?"

"That was very, um, elderly British guy of you, Giles," Buffy replies as she flops into the nearest armchair dutifully. The others follow her lead without further complaint. Buffy focuses in on Giles.

"So. What exactly am I killing in our nation's capital this time around?"

"Well…"

"And more to the point, how many more Frequent Slayer points do we need before Buffy gets that trip to Hawaii she's been subtly hinting at for months, courtesy of the US government and 'Joe _Still-Unaware-of-Demons_ Average' taxpayer?" she adds – because there are strictly no interruptions once he passes the 'now entering explanation-mode' sign and she can't pass up the chance to ram the point home one last time.

In the interests of keeping with the regression theme and all that.

Giles looks torn for a minute between losing the plot and snorting with mirth, and Buffy holds her breath and wonders if she pushed the boundaries of their newly re-formed relationship too far.

Thankfully, he chooses Option B and the room rings with the sound of their communal laughter. After all, there's always time to deal with the what and the how later.

* * *

In the days surrounding their return from Israel and the funeral that wasn't, Gibbs started leaving his front door unlocked again.

He didn't announce it this time around, but they seemed to catch onto it anyway because more often than not, footsteps thudded overhead in the still of night and shadows slipped down the stairs – sometimes alone and sometimes in ragged groups.

This time around, the boat took shape in the spirit of Rule #15. _Always work as a team._ Hands working in bourbon-fuelled, grief-fuelled silence as he watched from the sidelines and occasionally offered gruff advice.

Sand with the grain. Measure twice, cut once.

Gibbs, who goes against the grain as a matter of course; who routinely relies on his gut – which knows nothing of measurement or pausing before it sets steel teeth to the faint pencil-lines of instinct borne from years of training – to lead him to the right answer, had no solutions, no quick fixes for grief despite being so practiced at it.

What he did have were rules, and a basement, and that seemed to be enough for the time being.

Order in the face of chaos.

McGee slowly lost the air of cocky self-assurance he had in the weeks leading up to Rivkin's death. Abby showed up in pigtails and black lipstick one night and if the others noticed it, they didn't mention it. DiNozzo stopped joking about bourbon and hand tools, but he also started quoting movies again.

Gibbs sipped slowly from his mason jar and watched them come back to themselves with each scrape of sandpaper on knot and grain.

The skeleton of the boat rose slowly from the ashes as they healed however they could, and somehow the latest incarnation in a long line of vessels did not carry the scent of grief or anger among the sharp heady scent of the wood.

For the first time, he imagined breaking a bottle over the bow and untying ropes that are stiff with ocean salt. For the first time, he thought with something akin to sadness of the moment when he would have to take apart what they have worked so hard to put together.

The boat remained as nameless as the reason why they descended the stairs in the first place, as if voicing it would have made it real in a way that even shovelling dirt onto a grave under the hot Israeli sunshine could not.

For the first time Gibbs couldn't bear the thought of dousing another symbol of his regret with petrol and hearing the snap and flare of the match.

****

Tonight, as the rain beats a furious tattoo on the small windows above his head, Gibbs sits alone and studies the curving arches in the half-light. It lacks the finesse of the others, but he's a firm believer in letting his people find their own way when it's necessary and the shaky edges and rough patches are a testament to that. He could fix the small things while they're not looking, but that would negate the purpose of the lesson.

The air shifts almost imperceptibly as the door opens and silent feet hesitate at the top of the stairs. An intake of breath slices the air and he waits silently, eyeing the shadow of a stain on the concrete floor. The stairs creak as she descends, regardless of how stealthily she can move.

"No rule that says we have to do this down here," he says, and Ziva pauses on the fifth stair from the bottom and shakes her head. Gibbs studies her carefully as she crosses the floor, reaching behind him without looking for the twin to the glass he holds. She accepts it without a word, offering him a hesitant smile in return.

"What are we drinking to?" she asks curiously, turning the glass between her palms so that the bourbon catches the light.

"La'chaim," Gibbs says after a long moment, raising his jar and sending rays of honey and amber skittering across her still too-thin face.

"To life, then," she answers in an unreadable voice, turning away and studying the boat.

"You sneak out?" he asks lightly, more to break the silence than anything else.

"I am not a child," Ziva says stiffly, running her hand over the smooth wood, "I do not have to ask permission to go anywhere, especially not in my own –" She stops dead.

"_Is it_ your home?" Gibbs questions after a beat of awkward silence, remembering their conversation shortly after her apartment blew up. It seems like a lifetime ago, though he imagines he can smell the smoke from her burned possessions – her _life_ – curling in the air.

"I do not know," she says evenly, her face carefully composed.

If she were a suspect, he would hone in on her indecisive answer and push until she snapped, but something about the slump of her shoulders tells him that perhaps she's been broken enough already.

"You wanna talk about it?" he asks gently instead, refilling his glass and rising from his stool to stand beside her, offering comfort with his presence that he can't express in words. He's not entirely surprised when she shakes her head _no_, the faint scar at her hairline catching the light.

Ziva is not wearing white, and she is not painted with another man's blood, but her sudden shell-shocked expression is the same as it was in those first moments after she rolled out from under a dead man and rose from the ashes of her 'almost' like a phoenix.

Like the boat that fills the space in the basement, a tangible reminder of all the things they could not – _can not_ – say. Gibbs looks away at her sudden twice-measured glance.

"I am sorry," Ziva says slowly, and he imagines the glint of steel cutting into his flesh at the simplicity of the much-scoffed-at words. "I did not know what Michael was doing, but I suspected, and I should have come to you."

"Can't serve two masters," he says with a shrug, as much of an acceptance as he's willing to give with the ghost of her brother lingering in the air. "Speaking of which, will we be seeing you in the bullpen tomorrow?"

Her hand goes to her neck and then darts back to her side like a chastised bird, and Gibbs notices for the first time that she's not wearing her necklace. Knowing what he does about what she's been through, he wonders if it's a sign of her severing of past ties or a product of her time in captivity.

"I do not know," she says again, but this time it is lightened by her relief at the thought that she might be wanted after all. "The glamour is… problematic, and difficult to maintain." She looks exhausted, and though he knows nothing of magic he understands how secrets weary the soul. "I believe Buffy and Giles and the others are discussing possible alternatives back at our apartment."

"Okay," he replies simply, draining his glass and breathing through the slow bourbon burn. "Ziver…"

She meets his eyes and he is struck by the regret in them. "Gibbs."

"I am sorry," he says quietly, and she draws back in surprise. He plows on through the awkwardness of the moment. "Nobody should have to go through what you went through. If I could have…"

"I know."

"Spose you're going to ask me to overlook Rule 12," he says suddenly, needing an escape from the current line of conversation. Her lips lift at the corners in a smile and Gibbs watches with fatherly affection as she considers the words.

"Technically, if Tony and I are not co-workers, Rule 12 no longer applies, yes?"

He snorts. "I'll grant you that one. Conditional on me not having to watch you two play grab-ass in my bullpen. It's enough to put a man off his coffee."

What he really means is _I'm glad you've got the chance to be happy_. He's fairly sure she understands, judging by the twinkle in her eye.

"You find a place to stay?"

Ziva nods. "ICWS secured an apartment in Capitol Hill. I suspect Buffy called in some favours to do so at such short notice."

Gibbs raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Who'd she call to get a place in that neighbourhood? The President?"

"It is entirely possible. I believe the White House owes the Coalition more than one favour, though most of them were amassed under the previous administration."

"Demons and magic and an underground network of vampire slayers," he sighs, "Would think it was one of DiNozzo's damn movies, if I hadn't seen the proof. And on the subject of DiNozzo, do me a favour and don't make me listen to him bitch like a little girl about your relationship. I might have to shoot him." She opens her mouth to protest, and he holds up a hand. "Not done, David."

She flinches at the unwelcome name, and he resists the urge to slap himself upside the head. Footsteps pound across the floor above them, and a disembodied voice interrupts whatever he might have tried to say about the reality of relationships in lives like theirs.

It's probably just as well, since there's very little he can offer her other than useless warnings and needless advice. Gibbs suspects she knows better than anyone about how rocky that road is.

Tony's head pops through the door. "McGenerous brought pizza, Boss, but at the rate Abby's eating it you'd better get yourself up here – Oh!"

He recovers quickly, shooting a quick and hesitant grin in Ziva's direction and then focussing his attention on Gibbs.

"Hope you two aren't plotting world domination down here in the dark while the Terrible Two eat all my pizza. DiNozzo's Rule #12 – no dastardly plan is worth giving up extra cheese and a double helping of meat."

Ziva snorts and starts up the stairs, shaking her head ruefully. She turns back to look at him on the sixth step, the one that creaks like his joints on cold mornings, and he waves her on as he caps the bottle of bourbon and reaches for the light switch with an almost-smile.

Laughter trickles down the staircase and echoes around the basement, bouncing off the imperfect skeleton of the boat that they're building – no longer in memory of another thing they've lost, but in the spirit of new beginnings.

Pausing, he grabs the bourbon before starting up the stairs to join them in their celebration. It's something worth drinking to, after all.

_La'chaim_.

* * *

_As always, your thoughts and comments are much appreciated._


	17. Sorriest Fancies

_**A/N:** This has been coming for awhile, I think. I'm normally not bad at finding the funny in a situation, but in this case it took half a dozen rewrites of trying before I just gave up and gave into the dark side. Apologies for the angst. After this one, we move back into regularly scheduled inappropriate humour, or at least my attempts at it._

Chapter title (questionable word use and all) comes courtesy of Lady Macbeth, with a minor reference throughout the story to another maybe-familiar line. Both borrowed from the Bard.

How now, my lord, why do you keep alone,  
Of sorriest fancies your companions making,  
Using those thoughts which should indeed have died  
With them they think on? Things without all remedy  
Should be without regard: what's done, is done.

* * *

Ziva drives back to the Capitol Hill apartment with a lighter heart, but her hands tremble on the wheel as she takes corners at a speed that would make Buffy cringe. Her thoughts dart and weave like the rental through the trickle of midnight traffic, interrupted occasionally by the bursts of too-loud music on the radio or the blare of horns.

It's not enough to drown out her disbelief at how easy it was to fall back into old comforts, or the look in Tony's eyes when she told him that she did not want him to follow her home. Not tonight.

"Buffy will be waiting to update me on whatever Mr Giles has discovered," she had said in a neutral voice, careful to meet his sceptical gaze. After all, she was the one that taught him some of the secrets of deception. _Liars look down and to the left_, she'd explained, ignoring his surprised face at her ability to read him so succinctly.

Eggs for breakfast, indeed.

She doesn't have much to teach him about investigating, but she _can_ show him some little tricks of the trade that might save someone's – maybe even _his_ – life one day. It's all about reading people. Assessing a person's intent, motivation and ability.

Or maybe it's just the luck of being unconscious in the right holding cell when self-proclaimed 'hot chicks with superpowers' storm the castle to take back their captured princess.

The sudden segue into fairytale reference makes her smile. Too much time spent listening to young slayers talk about their heroes and the monsters they fight, the subversion of the 'helpless girl in the dark alley' scenario.

_Should have taken that offer, Ziva_, she thinks as she pulls into their designated parking space and kills the engine. Overthinking is – _was?_ – dangerous in her line of work. Contemplative operatives are dead operatives, after all.

Light flickers under the door as she pushes it open quietly, mindful of the late hour and unsure whether Giles and the others were heading back after the meeting. She gets her answer in the form of a dark shape on the couch, breathing evenly in what might be sleep or a practiced and expert attempt at faking it. In the light of the muted television Xander's face seems impossibly young, despite the ever-present patch over the place where his eye used to be.

It reminds her of McGee, and _that_ forces her train of thought back onto its original track. How could they…

No. This is not something to be mulled over standing in the middle of a darkened lounge room watching the light play over the face of a man who has lost too much in his short years, and yet can still find the strength to laugh in the face of it all.

And _that_ just serves to remind her of someone else she knows. Knew.

No, _knows_ is better. There's possibility there.

Sighing softly, Ziva slips into her room to pull on something warmer than the light jacket and pants she left in, noticing as she does that Buffy's door is ajar and the air inside seems empty and still. Patrolling, most likely, with Xander left behind as… what? Welcoming committee? Guard dog?

He shifts in his sleep and mutters something about tuna fish in a thick voice as Ziva steps silent and cat-like past him and slides open the door to the balcony. The chill in the air makes her skin prickle uncomfortably despite the extra layers. It steals her breath and brings out a pink stain on her cheeks. They ache like the aftermath of a slap, like a kiss goodbye under buttery sunshine.

She almost doesn't realise that she's not alone, and when her eyes adjust and she sees the figure in the corner she thinks she's lucky to have made it to the age she has, given her woeful lapses in observation over the years. Ari. Jenny. Michael.

Willow.

"Buffy's gone patrolling with Giles," the redhead says quietly, the tip of her nose red from the cold air. Willow gives a self-deprecating shrug. "But I guess given the lack of people who actually _live_ here in your apartment, um, actually _being_ here, you already knew that."

She's still wearing the same thin shirt and flowing skirt that she arrived in earlier, regardless of the drop in temperature. It makes Ziva want to shiver in sympathy, looking at the goosepimples on the Wiccan's arms.

Ziva's not sure how to respond without stating the obvious, so she sits down instead and stares out at the lights of the city, twinkling with promise that somehow she became accustomed to during her years in Washington. She's stared at the skyline of so many cities that they begin to blur into one after awhile. Unless you have the chance to see them with new eyes, that is.

"Does Xander ever remove the patch?" she asks apropos of nothing. She feels rather than sees Willow's eyes on her, and wishes that she could take back the question. It twists and warps in the uncomfortable silence.

"Do you ever go anywhere without your knife?" Willow answers simply, a question for a question. Classic deflection tactic. Ziva takes it for what it is and decides not to push, though she is not as a rule easily deflected. Or at least, she never used to be.

There have been many knives over the years, and those knives have killed many men. Despite this – or perhaps because of it – she feels naked without the familiar weight. Naked and wrong. Gleaming steel as a sharp-edged reminder of all that she's done and all that she's lost – and what she could have lost, and could have done to write herself a different story.

It hurts her head, thinking about what could have been.

Later, she will wonder why she did it, why she offered a part of herself to someone she does not know, without being asked. Tear tracks on cheeks as a little girl sits with a badge in her hand and listens to a man with unusually gentle blue eyes tell her about her sister the hero. Tony's eyes on her then like Willow's are now, questioning and wary.

"In my time with Mossad," she begins, eyes on the sparkling city, "I killed many men. Most of them traitors, enemies of Israel. After awhile, I stopped asking why they were marked for death. It did not matter in the end who they thought they were protecting or why, or how misguided that protection turned out to be. In the eyes of my superiors they were traitors, and traitors deserve to die. There is no forgiveness, no second chances. Not for that, at least."

A plane winks among the stars and Ziva tracks its path across the sky with hooded eyes.

"And yet they forgive me," she says after awhile. "Gibbs, and McGee, and Tony… and the others. Not entirely, and I do not think they fully understand what happened and what _is_ happening, but they are willing to try."

"People surprise you sometimes," Willow says quietly. "Doesn't make it any easier to look at your hands and not see blood. 'Out damned spot' and all that. And sometimes… they don't, and in a way that makes the kind of sense that's not, it's easier to live with, because what they see when they look at you is what you see when you look at yourself. Even if someone asked you to do something, and you never meant – " Her hands spark blue as she twists them together.

The plane disappears from Ziva's line of sight.

"I changed the world," Willow continues in a ragged voice. "I changed the world, and everyone patted me on the back and told me that doing that took strength and courage and power and a whole bunch of nice-sounding words. I changed the world, and then I destroyed Buffy's with a swipe of my hand. That's not being strong or courageous. That's being stupid and arrogant and other _not_-nice-sounding things."

"The intent does not always determine the outcome," Ziva says, marvelling at the two completely different – and yet stunningly similar – conversations that are happening here in the icy air.

Once upon a time, she told Michelle Lee that she understood why she betrayed her country to save her sister. She did, and she does, and had her brother been saveable she would have fought tooth and screw to do so, knowing what she thought she knew when she stepped off the plane into the Washington air for the first time.

She looks at Willow, shadowed and unreadable in the half-light. "You do what you think you have to do to save those that you care for from pain, even if it turns out that you did not have all of the information."

"And if you should have known better?" Willow asks fiercely. "Being older and supposedly wiser and knowing that sometimes things go wrong and you end up baking enough cookies to stock the Sunnydale bakery, or at least before it was swallowed up by Spike's shiny crater-making accessory?"

Ziva blinks, unsure what to make of the unknown reference. "If I had the answers," she says thoughtfully, tucking her hands inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt, "I would not be sitting out here in the cold."

Willow sighs as if she was hoping Ziva would play the mother and tell her what to do, but Ziva is nobody's mother. She's barely even a friend. Just a semi-stranger on a balcony who happens to be in a similarly melancholy state of mind. Once, she was a sister, a daughter, a team member. Now, she's none of those things, and so is neither qualified nor able to tell Willow what path she should take.

"When Buffy was… gone," Willow ventures uncertainly, "Dawnie kinda became the little sister I used to beg my parents to give me every year for Hanukkah. Except not so much with the little, and without parents around to handle the bedtimes and the boys and the meals that didn't come out of a carton marked 'Ezy.' After the destruction of Sunnydale and all the madness of finding Slayers and setting up the Coalition, we kept in touch – even when I was off continent-hopping for ICWS. The last time I spoke to her before I heard the news, we talked about college; the pitfalls of the assigned roommate system, choosing decent classes without literally evil professors, a-and how to avoid the dreaded freshman fifteen."

She smiles at the memory, though in the dim light it looks a little like a caricature.

"I told her I'd always be there to help her with her coursework if she needed me, and she asked if that applied to other things as well. I thought she meant buying beer or hiding a piercing or something. Two weeks later Giles called me in Spain and told me to catch the next flight back to the Academy. I didn't want to leave. Kennedy didn't want to leave. Sangria and sunshine and music pulsing in the background all the time, it was like heaven. And then he told me why, and I stopped being able to hear the music, and heaven became hell."

****

"David! Phone call," her then-partner, Officer Saul Meir, had said abruptly, entering the small stifling room with a cell phone outstretched in his callused hand. They had just begun the sixth day of their stakeout of the nondescript Polish bakery across the road, a suspected contact point for a relatively small time arms dealer.

Ziva already despised the endless waiting and mind-numbing boredom of reconnaissance assignments, and suspected that the reason she was given so many of them was not because of her relatively junior rank in the Institute pecking order but because of who her father was.

Namely, the adversary of the man under whose control she had been assigned and hence would decide her fate until her transfer to the _metsada_ division was approved by the then-Director.

After all, there was no doubt that Ziva David had the necessary skills for fieldwork, having summarily out-shot and out-manoeuvred many of her fellow operatives during the latest training exercise in the Negev desert. It was expected that she would perform as such, given her background and the favourable reports from her IDF section chief.

_Raised from the cradle to shoot and deceive and kill,_ voices muttered bitterly when she beat them, and she pretended she did not hear the words, dismantling her weapon or brushing the dirt from her jacket with practiced nonchalance.

_They may be jealous of you,_ a well-meaning senior officer had told her very early in her career, hearing the whispers, _but if they waste their time with jealousy, they will not last long. Waste yours trying to win their friendship, and neither will you._

Why Mossad (and it could only be the Institute, since nobody else had the secure number) would be breaking their habitual mid-operation silence to call her directly, she did not know, but a heavy weight settled in her stomach as she raised the phone to her ear.

"Ziva," the familiar voice echoed down the line, an odd inflection twisting the word into something so alien, she barely recognised it as her own name. Something low in her gut clenched and rolled over uneasily.

"Aba," she replied, turning away from Meir's curious eyes.

He has never been one for sugar-coating, and he does not start now. "Your sister has been involved in an attack on a café," he said stonily, and the fact that he couldn't say Tali's name did not escape her attention. The bottom dropped out of her world with an audible crash, and it was only from Meir's startled movement that she realised the crash was the sound of the phone hitting the ground. He handed it to her with sad eyes, knowing too well the shell-shocked look of loss.

"When is the funeral to be held?" she asked when she could talk again, hating the coldness of her voice. She wanted to scream but was afraid that if she starts she might never stop.

"Two days ago," came the equally detached reply, and in that moment she never hated another thing in her life as much as she hated her father for once again choosing the hunt over the heart. This time it cut especially deep, because he was not just walking his own ambitious path any more, but stepping onto hers with his heavy boots.

The boots apparently have nails, because her chest tightened to the point of pain. "I will come home immediately to join you for shiva," she said between stabbing breaths.

"You will continue with the assignment," her father replied firmly. "Your transfer was approved as of this morning. A signed sanction order should be arriving there shortly, should you wish to keep a record of your first official directive as _metsada_."

She didn't ask why anyone would want to remember such a thing before hanging up, just bit the inside of her mouth until blood welled on her tongue from the effort of maintaining her composure and made an excuse to leave the room. It would not do for her partner to see her cry.

Two days later, she shot a surprised man point blank in the head in a dirty alley beside the bakery, and the body dropped to the ground with a sickening double thud that sounded like _Ta-li._

Her hatred of stakeouts continued throughout her career.

****

Once Ziva bled blue and white, followed orders without question, could keep her mind on the task at hand. Now she sits and listens to Willow talk about sweat-soaked sheets and incoherent words and the knife-edge of constant pain, and a promise made in a moment of weakness at the suffering of another.

"She waited until Xander left, and asked if I was going to keep my promise," Willow spits out like poison, "and I didn't know what she meant, except then I did and what she thought I meant wasn't what I meant at all. Beer and navel rings are not the same thing as... but I was so sure that I could do it, and Dawn was in pain, and I'd…"

Ziva used to promise Tali that their father would keep the monsters from coming up the stairs and into her bedroom at night, but that didn't stop her little sister from hiding under the covers when she slept. Sometimes promises and good intentions are meaningless in the face of fear.

"I should have known better," Willow says again resignedly, like she's repeated it many times over in her head.. "Dawnie just… she kept _looking_ at me. I should have told Giles, or Buffy what she had asked me to do. I was so certain that it would work that I didn't think what would happen if it didn't. I didn't _want_ to think, and _choosing_ not to think is the worst kind of stupid there is, because it flips the proverbial birdie at fear and you need to be afraid of things like that. Otherwise you're just a _rank, arrogant amateur_."

Ziva wonders what Buffy would say if she knew Willow had just mirrored her 'fear as motivation' speech. The wind howls past the building, and the freight train of physical and emotional exhaustion slams into her with a roar. She shivers.

Another reminder of the reasons why magic is not something she is entirely comfortable with.

She doesn't ask why Willow hasn't talked to Buffy or the others about this. Out damned spot, indeed. Suddenly, a thought flares into being. She's not entirely sure of Willow's religious views or how well-versed she is in the rituals of Judaism, but it is something that perhaps might be more meaningful than her own awkward words.

"You know I cannot grant you forgiveness," Ziva says softly as she rises from the chair.

Willow blinks at her. "Sorta not what I meant."

"Nevertheless," Ziva continues, ignoring the faint shadow of sarcasm in Willow's reply. "Just like we cannot seek forgiveness from the dead, only from the living. The dead are dead, and the living mourn them, but the dead do not hurt. Those left behind hurt for them in their stead. They hurt themselves and they hurt each other. _There is no one so righteous that they have not wronged another, financially or physically, through deed or speech_," she recites from memory, her hand pressed against the door as if to distract her heart with the unyielding coolness of the glass.

Something strong and seemingly solid, yet likely to shatter if one pushes too hard. Ziva tries not to think of shards of glass embedded in flesh, an ending that she knew was inevitable even if she did not know who would play the first deadly move on the Mossad chessboard. Pawns moving in a black and white world.

Sometimes you need to push. Things need to break and be repaired piece by piece.

You need to forget what the lights of the city look like, so when you sit outside on a balcony almost in the middle of the heart of the nation, your own heart remembers what it felt like to see them for the first time.

"You should talk to Buffy," she offers now. "I cannot speak for her, but I suspect that if you choose your moment wisely she will not turn you away. She may not be able to forgive you, and perhaps that is inevitable. But at least you will have said your piece."

Willow nods slowly, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears in the lights of the city. "It fades after awhile," she says in response. "The blood. It never really disappears, but it fades. They've given you the chance to scrub a little harder at the spot, make it fade quicker. Take it while you can."

The door glides open on well-oiled tracks, shadows on the wall elongated and flickering as, onscreen, an actor stretches his mouth into a silent scream. Hands tear at hair in a two-dimensional representation of grief.

It would be nice if life was always like Tony's movies. In reality, there are no rehearsals, and if you say the wrong lines you just have to push forward and hope that nobody notices your blunder. Nobody's a hero, and nobody's a villain, because everyone has a little bit of each in them and to deny either would be as two-dimensional as the flickering screen. There's no director to call cut and very rarely do you get a second take.

"It's not nice to stare," Xander says suddenly and without any real bite, and even though she half-suspected he was awake her hand still strays to the knife at her hip in surprise. He sits up in a cocoon of blankets and studies her thoughtfully.

"The answer to your question is no," he says quietly. "I don't take it off much. Maybe when I'm in the shower, or when I have my yearly check-up with the specialist, or once, to gross out a demon and stop it from biting my head off – and I mean that in the disgustingly literal sense."

He winces at the memory as Ziva processes the implications of his answer. "Thing is… I don't really need to see it to remember what used to be there. I'd much rather look forward, y'know?" He looks toward the balcony door. "And on that note…"

Ziva takes that as her cue to leave the room.

Later, curled under the covers like a child hiding from imagined monsters in the closet, Xander's words echo in her head. She slides her hand under the pillow and her finger brushes cold steel.

She thinks of strong men and basements and bullets piercing foreheads and necks and hearts, and those things apply to many situations she's been in or heard of. In the dark, with ghosts lurking in the corners of her mind, she can't help but think that she would have given it all up for the people who loved her most in the world, had she been able to save them.

You cannot ask for forgiveness from the dead, but sometimes it is granted by the living, and that is as much a cause for celebration as it is for grief. There's possibility there, after all.

Possibility smells oddly like clean sheets and fabric softener, but the monsters retreat back into the closet with a gentle click of the door, and the tears that flood in their wake slide Ziva into sleep.

* * *

_I don't write Willow, as a rule. I tried very hard to make it less about the bash and more about the insight. Very freakin' hard._

*cowers in anticipation of all the backlash*


	18. Curiosity Killed the Cat

_**A/N:** *sheepish grin* Sorry for the long wait between updates. RL's been kicking my butt, and I got distracted by the NCIS Season 7 shiny... :) If you've got me on Author Alert, you might have already realised just **how** distracted I got... 16,000 words worth, actually. Heh._

Hope you enjoy. And a note - we're jumping forward a couple of weeks.

* * *

Being an NCIS liaison turns out to be not that different from being a Slayer, except for the staggering amounts of paperwork.

Oh, and the painstaking collection of evidence in the weak Washington sunlight – blood and hair and fingerprints and – in one memorable case – a wicked-sharp katana that would make any self-respecting slayer's eyes brighten in appreciation.

And speaking of weapons – there are the guns, one of which is locked in her top drawer despite her initially calm (and then slightly less calm when Gibbs tried to push) refusal to carry it.

"Not having someone from my team in the field unarmed," he'd said on the first day when Buffy pointedly pushed the Sig to the very back of the drawer like it was evil incarnate.

She'd turned the key with a decisive twist and then risen from her chair and proceeded to remove all the different weapons she had concealed on her person. Blades and throwing stars and a few stakes that she merely flashed briefly and then concealed again. Wouldn't do to have the whole squadroom thinking she was building a very small fence, after all. She had lined the more innocuous weapons up neatly and deftly on the Senior Agent's desk as Tony and Tim watched open-mouthed and Gibbs tried to hide the amused twitch of his lips.

Ziva had laughed when she heard about it and told her a story about an iron casket and a cache of weapons and the value of following Rule Nine. Buffy is to guns what Gibbs is to apologies, and the silver-haired agent can't argue with that logic, as much as his glare told her he wanted to at the time.

It's an unfamiliar world, because preserving the crime scene for prosecution purposes? Not so important when you're dealing with demons. Slaying is more about disposing of the evidence than collecting it, though there are always exceptions. Wouldn't do to have Joe Average stumble across a six-eyed severed head on his trek home from the pub, and as they've found over the years, bodies can grow heads and heads can grow bodies and…

Well, not policing your demon parts is pretty much just badness all around.

Cataloguing and analysing the calculated evils that humans do in the light of day makes Buffy _almost_ wish for the mostly random (though no less brutal) evils of things that lurk under cover of night. Wouldn't Anya have had a field day granting that wish, once upon a time before her black and white world got coloured with human shades of grey.

"Summers!" Gibbs barks now, sweeping into the bullpen with his ever-present Starbucks cup firmly in hand. The name whips through the air and she struggles not to flinch from the almost-audible 'crack!' of unwelcome association. Not counting Hank – whom last she heard had moved to New York and started his latest pursuit in a long line of secretary-shaped conquests – she's the last Summers standing, and it shouldn't hurt so much, but somehow it does.

_Shoulda woulda coulda_.

"Agent Gibbs," she replies crisply from her desk, glancing up at Gibbs with a carefully set face. "Is there a problem?"

"The correct answer is 'how high'." Tony offers blandly, looking up from his desk with a smirk. At Gibbs' glare, he quickly turns his attention back to the report he's writing. Buffy does a mental eye-roll towards Tony's bent head before pushing off her chair and facing Gibbs squarely, ignoring the twinge in her knee from last night's minor patrol mishap.

"With me," Gibbs says, still in the same prickly tone, heading for the elevator without looking to see if she's following like a good little sheep.

Around the squad room, Field Agents and other NCIS personnel shoot Buffy sympathetic grins, which she returns weakly for the hundredth time. It's become well known around the squad room that the new liaison is getting an especially hard time from the notoriously hard-to-please Special Agent. Second 'B' for bastard, indeed.

"_Probably because the last two agents to sit at that desk were killed, and Gibbs doesn't want to get attached to this one"_, a reedy blonde woman had whispered to her cubicle mate last week, as Buffy pretended yet again that she couldn't hear pretty much everything that goes on in the smallish area. Slayer hearing: a blessing and a curse.

There's a lot of pretending going on these days.

It's necessary, but still – she can't help griping to Ziva after long days and longer nights about the return of her 'Secret Identity Girl' status. The Director is always sniffing around, watching them, watching _her_, and even though Buffy's seen plenty of scarier things than Vance, she can't exactly use her usual methods to show him that _he_ should be scared of _her_, not the other way round. Intimidation through badass Slayer skills isn't really something you practice in this particular workplace, as much as it might be a useful tool for scaring demons (or new slayers).

Well, not in front of the Director anyway, though she suspects he knows more about her than he's telling. Tony clued her in early on about his connections to Eli David, and since then his careful scrutiny rings all kinds of alarm bells.

It's tough work, holding two jobs at once. Especially when one of those jobs is filled with bodies and blood and having her ass kicked from here to Sunday… and the other is fighting demons until all hours of the night. At least Giles has yet to discover the torture of making them fill out ridiculously long post-patrol mission reports. In triplicate.

Though if he tried, Buffy would tell him in no uncertain terms what exactly he could _do_ with those reports, and she suspects he's well aware of this.

At least she no longer goes home at the end of the day smelling like fake-meat grease.

The doors slide shut behind them. Gibbs presses the button for Abby's lab before hitting the emergency switch with a sharp stab of his non-coffee-bearing hand.

"If this is about the sparring session with Thompson yesterday," Buffy starts as the elevator shudders to a halt, "It was totally his fault for making tasteless dwarf jokes within a three-mile radius of a vertically challenged person with Slayer hearing. And I barely touched him… much."

"That why he asked to be transferred to the Norfolk office, effective immediately? " Gibbs asks dryly, looking her up and down. His mouth twitches with barely restrained amusement. "I thought ICWS were all about the secret identity."

"We are," Buffy says with a laugh, "so if we could _not_ mention that incident to Giles at dinner tonight, that would save me about half an hour of 'pretending to be sorry' face and him a lot of frustrated muttering. And hey, you're still coming, right?"

Gibbs leans against the wall, relaxing visibly. "Depends. You still _not_ cooking?"

Buffy pouts. "Hey, I – nah, I can't even pretend to be upset about that one," she says sheepishly, mirroring his relaxed posture and sighing briefly at the ache across her back. Damn post-patrol bruises. "Zi- _Anne's_ probably slaving away over a hot stove as we speak. Either that or buried up to her neck in chasing down the kind of leads we, uh, can't look for on computers marked 'Property of NCIS'."

"Never stopped DiNozzo," Gibbs shoots back, then narrows his eyes, watching her shift uncomfortably onto her good side. "You're injured."

Buffy brushes it off with a casual wave of her hand. Sometimes she wishes the man was a little _less_ observant. "It's nothing. Got thrown over a gravestone the wrong way by an ex-Marine vamp. They don't make granite any more padded in our nation's capital." She pauses, and her eyes light up with curiosity. "Hey, I've been meaning to ask you, does the 'semper fido' thing still apply if you become _undead_, or does becoming a demon put the kibosh on your Corps loyalty?"

Gibbs looks at her incredulously for a moment. "It's 'semper fi,' Summers. Fido is a dog's name. And what, you want me to call the recruitment office at Eighth and I and ask if they'd consider including a vampire intake in the next round?"

"Can't fault a girl for being curious."

"You know what they say about curiosity," he retorts, flipping off the emergency switch. Buffy blinks in the sudden light as the elevator begins to move downwards.

"Yeah. It kills the cat, and then someone hangs a wacky tribal mask in their bedroom and before you know it, Smelly Zombie Cat is rubbing its formerly-dead self all over your favourite pants."

Much to Buffy's amusement, Gibbs just stares at her before apparently mentally adding the anecdote to the growing list of 'things not to clarify.' She frowns. While he's quiet…

"Hey, just a thought – can we all dial back the 'MCRT vs Buffy' fake-hate now? It's been three weeks, and other than all the sympathy from everyone not you, Tony or Tim, work is pretty light on the 'fun' side. Do you ride all your new team members this hard?"

"Yeah," he answers simply as the doors slide open.

"Oh. Well, yay for _not_ being special then," Buffy says thoughtfully. "Though I guess that's the point. How long does this hazing period normally last? In the office I mean, because hello, there's generally someone from the team at our apartment at least a few times a week, so I'm pretty sure that they don't _really_ hate me, at least not as much as they pretend to when we're here. And hey, way to train your agents, because they're nothing if not uber-convincing."

"You said it yourself," Gibbs says pointedly. "Only been three weeks. Give it another week or so." He leads out into the small foyer near Abby's lab, not looking behind him but obviously assuming that she'll follow.

Gibbs reminds her a bit of Giles, or how she imagines Giles would be if he'd stayed in the angry ex-librarian ex-Watcher funk he'd fallen into during her first year of college. Though if Giles had even _tried_ to hit her on the back of the head, he probably would have lost a finger or three. Maybe that's why the few times he's seen Gibbs in action he can't help but chuckle.

It's surprising how easy it is to let someone else take charge. _Nice_, even. No questions about dorm assignments or training programs or the latest budget report for the financial year – and better still, no whining about any of the above.

"Gibbs!" Abby says loudly from within the inner part of the lab. The rest of her words are drowned out by a sudden blast of music, which Buffy belatedly realizes is coming from her back pocket rather than from the lab itself. Gibbs sticks his head out the door and looks at her pointedly as she fishes around for her cell.

"Agent Summers," Vance says in a no-nonsense tone, not bothering with pleasantries.

Buffy has to remind herself again that none of them _mean_ it to sting like it does, really. Summers. Buttery sunshine, lazy days and easy smiles. It's nearly ten summers now since her mom died, and almost – no, now is not the time to remember that in three days it will have been –

Now is_ not the time_.

"Buffy," she corrects automatically, feeling Gibbs' eyes bore into her for a minute longer before he disappears into the lab and Abby's voice rises in the now-familiar half squeal of discovery. Giles-in-her-head warns her to be polite and concise and _for goodness' sake, do not say _–

"What's the what, Director?"

Giles-in-her-head sighs and falls silent. Well, you can take the girl out of California…

"Need to see you in my office," he says in that not-quite-order tone he has pitch perfect. "Immediately."

He hangs up abruptly. Buffy has to bite down on the urge to blow a raspberry into the mouthpiece, despite knowing that it's immature and wrong and totally not what a capable and level-headed ICWS representative would…

"That Vance?" Gibbs asks, back in his previous position in the doorway and holy hell, he's almost as stealthy as a certain vampire she once knew. He's even got the billowy-coat-king-of-pain thing down, though he obviously got the memo about sports coats being the new black this season.

"Was it my winning smile, or my positively admiring phone manner?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Nope. Stuck your tongue out at the phone. Doesn't make it hard to narrow down the possibilities ." Buffy blushes despite herself, caught out, but Gibbs just motions to the elevator. "Go. We need you, we'll call."

"No wise words of advice before I face your fearless leader?" Off his unchanging look, she turns and heads for the elevator. "Guess not."

"Summers," he calls just as the doors are about to slide closed, and Buffy shoots her hand out to stop them. "If he pushes your buttons too hard – try not to rip off his head. Too much paperwork." The doors close on their shared grin.

He's not the worst boss ever, even if he redefines the meaning of 'functional mute.'

* * *

Leon Vance is nothing if not thorough.

He likes things to be organized, categorized and marked – and above all else, consistent. You don't rise to the top of the NCIS food chain (unspoken agreements with the SecNav aside) without making sure that you do your research before jumping into a situation blind. Hell, you don't jump so much as a foot in front of you without checking your facts, even if a person has passed the most stringent of background checks and been recommended personally by the Director of Mossad.

It bothers him that nowhere has he been able to find clear information about the purpose of ICWS, or why a liaison position in his agency might be needed other than to fill the hole that Officer David left behind. It bothers him even _more_ that until Agent Summers _was_ Agent Summers, ICWS Deputy Director and oddly, Co-founder and Deputy Headmistress of an exclusive school for teenage girls in Bath, England, she was Buffy Summers, teenage delinquent with a spotty academic record and even spottier arrest record. And then there's the fact that said records are heavily censored, courtesy of the US government.

Overall, he doesn't like loose ends, or loose cannons, and even though Summers has been nothing but a model liaison to date, the undercover operative in him is prodding him to interrogate the perpetually cheerful blonde agent, despite the directive he was sent by the SecNav's secretary. What Phillip Davenport doesn't know won't hurt him, after all.

He may not believe the rumours about Gibbs' gut, but the man has a point. Sometimes you just have to go with what your instincts – or your training – are telling you.

There's a scuffle outside and then a sharp rap on the door, as if someone was about to barge in and then thought better of it. He hides a smile. Defiance of authority figures, that was part of the file, and obviously something Summers is keeping well in check.

"Come in, Agent Summers," Vance says casually, ensuring that her file is safely tucked under a number of other documents, none of which are classified or even particularly relevant as anything other than cover for what he has _really_ been doing with his morning.

"Is there a problem, Director?" Summers asks immediately, and he has to admire her forthright tendencies, even if her approach is uncomfortably like Gibbs'. "'Cause I've been trying to figure out the whole way up here what I did to get put in the naughty chair, and I can't think of – "

"How are you enjoying working under Agent Gibbs?" he asks, cutting her off. He's heard the gossip around the squad room, knows that Gibbs has been giving her a hard time. "Have you and your… friend," The Watcher, Anne Perkins, who he has not officially met but has seen _her_ dossier and noticed her in the bullpen a couple of times. "Found a suitable apartment to rent yet?"

She blinks at him and some of her bubbly façade recedes. Underneath the easy smile, her expression turns cautious. "I've seen much bigger and nastier things than Agent Gibbs, Director, though he's giving some of them a run for their money. And if you asked me up here to give me the number of your estate agent, we found a place over near Capitol Hill, thanks all the same."

"Good thing I didn't ask you here for that, then," he says blithely, motioning her into a chair. "I have some questions to ask about your agency, Ms Summers" he begins, watching as she stiffens.

"Buffy," she corrects for the second time. "People who call me Ms Summers usually end up on the list of people I don't like," she adds quietly. "That, or they don't get invited to the housewarming." Again, he motions to the chair opposite his desk.

Instead, she moves over to sit at the conference table and looks at him expectantly. "I like being interrogated even less than I like being called Ms Summers," she says directly, and Vance has to hide his dismay at being read so easily. "Tell you what, Director, you seem like a pretty straightforward guy, and I'm not the kind to come bearing important information and then tell you that since you don't really work for us anymore, you can't have it. 'Nyah-nyah-nah-nah-nah' isn't how we play the game these days."

He's not quite sure what to make of that, but sits down anyway. Her attention is momentarily diverted by a piece that Eli gave him on a recent trip to Israel. "You don't strike me as the tea-drinking type," Summers – _Buffy_ – says easily, her earlier bluntness softened by her smile.

"It's not a teapot," he corrects, playing along for the moment, "Though the person who gave it to me has quite the appreciation for tea. It's actually a – "

"Solid silver antique pitcher, Egyptian or maybe Israeli in design, circa 1700's?" Buffy interjects, then looks almost embarrassed. "Sorry. Got a friend who's big on all things antique, it rubs off on you after awhile like a dem – uh, really smelly cat. Anyway. Pretty piece, even if it's missing a part."

This is news to him. Not being a big antiques collector – unless you count certain forms of sporting memorabilia – he never thought to ask Eli about its provenance or even look too closely. "Missing?"

Buffy pushes herself up with a barely noticeable wince that makes him wonder just how hard Gibbs has been pushing her. She moves over to the cabinet under the flat-screen television and reaches for the object, turning it around in her small hands. "It's heavier than it looks," she muses, trying to prise off the top. He's tried a couple of times with no success, so he doubts Summers will be able to open it even if he has heard rumours about her showing up various agents in the gym.

Maybe he should offer to go a few rounds, since the NCIS gym doesn't ban women fighters and his current attempt to catch her off-guard has been neatly and thoroughly derailed.

She studies it for a minute with something almost like appraisal, the way Jackie studies the Saturday paper at breakfast, looking for suitable houses to buy. Jared wants a dog, and Kayla wants a grand piano, and their backyard isn't big enough (he's not even willing to _consider_ the piano, no matter how many recitals he's missed since they moved to Washington).

"See? That dug-out bit, about the size of a quarter – in some of these designs, they embed a coin there. Must have fallen out." She gives him a wry grin. "If it wasn't a gift, I'd ask if you kept your receipt, but since it is – " Setting it down, she turns it so that the hole faces the wall. "Your average Agent would never know the difference."

"Summ – Buffy," Vance says once she's sat back down. Time to get down to business. "As much as I enjoy discussing antiques with you, there is still the matter of what exactly an ICWS Agent is doing as a liaison at NCIS, and at the request of the Secretary of the Navy no less. I won't lie – I've done my research. There are certain – gaps – in the information about your organization. Namely, why your work providing support and funding for troubled teenagers, antique appraisal and certain… unnamed specialized consulting and training services… requires someone to hold a position under the umbrella of the United States Navy."

She studies him for a long moment, much like she studied the pitcher. It's not a comfortable feeling. "There a question in there somewhere?" she asks finally, and he's struck again by the similarities between her and Gibbs. Like the Senior Agent, she appears to have little patience for beating around the bush – though Vance is pleased that she seems to have slightly more respect for authority.

"Why are you here?" he asks bluntly.

"I got sick of all the rain in England," she replies in a flippant tone that sets his teeth on edge. "Though really, I should've Googled the weather forecast before coming, cause Washington? Not big with the sunshine." It's not quite insolence, but it's breathtakingly close.

"While you are here, Ms Summers, you are under my command, and when I ask you a question I expect – " What he doesn't expect is for her to laugh and sit forward like she's about to tell him a secret.

"No offense, Director, but you've been given the wrong intel," Buffy says. Vance narrows his eyes thoughtfully, considering this. "It's nice to have your blessing and all, and your signature certainly makes things easy for the Legal Department, but honestly? Not really under your command. While you were digging around in my life, did you notice anything about the status of ICWS? Namely, the part where we have permission from the US government – and a few others around the world – to operate covertly in any way we see fit, without having to explain ourselves to pretty much anyone."

Vance has to give her credit, because her face remains perfectly friendly even while her tone cuts through him like a sword through butter. And yet, her words are not particularly combative – merely firm with a certainty that's almost enough to convince him she's telling the truth.

She sits back casually. "We're a fairly new organization, Director, and we're always looking for ways to broaden our knowledge. Mostly, I'm here to learn, and I'm on Gibbs' team because it's been said he's one of the best. We don't really have any motives other than that, and if that changes – and that's a pretty big if – you'll be read in. For now, though, you're gonna have to trust that I'm not here to stage a coup or anything."

It flies in the face of everything his training and experience has ever taught him, trusting her without knowing a single thing about her or her mission. And yet he can't help think – again – of Eli's recommendation, and Gibbs' gut, both of which he trusts however begrudgingly. On the whole, feigning acceptance is always better as a strategy anyway. Keep them thinking that you're willing to surrender and they'll never see it coming when you attack. Or at least, keep digging quietly under the surface.

"I think we're done here," he says, standing slowly and watching as Buffy follows suit. "I expect to be kept informed if your situation changes." What else can he say, really?

She smiles the California-girl smile again and Vance is startled by the change. You'd never know she just issued the Director of NCIS with a 'cease and desist' ultimatum with all the authority of an attorney defending a serial killer's secrets.

"Anytime you wanna talk antiques, I'll be down in the bullpen getting my ass kicked by Agent Gibbs," Summers says lightly, and then she pushes through the door without looking back.

Despite his frustration at being effectively shut down, he can't help but feel the slightest frisson of admiration for the way she played him. Flipping open Summers' file for the umpteenth time, he studies the first page – her application for Federal employment – carefully.

Sunnydale, California.

The name stirs something in him, and he logs onto the computer quickly, opening a new browser window. Sunnydale. Sometimes fancy computer skills just can't top Google as a quick way to find something. The search takes three seconds to process, and when it does a list of links appears that makes Vance sit back in his chair and stare at the screen in disbelief.

Sometimes you have to go with what your instincts tell you, and his instincts are screaming that there's something – to coin Miss Sciuto's term – _hinky_ going on here.

Vance dials a number from memory. "Pete?" he says into the mouthpiece when the call connects. "Leon Vance here. Need you to do a job for me."

* * *

_As always, reviews are much appreciated. Go on. Feed the Beast..._


	19. The Young and the Restless

**A/N:** Okay, I don't usually like to complain but -- seriously? No reviews at all for the last chapter? Huh. Something I did wrong? I know people read it...

Oh well. You get one now anyway, and another tomorrow (most likely), because the first half was finished and the second half is not. Yet.

* * *

"Hey, I got everything on the list you sent over," Buffy calls out as she pushes through the door to the apartment, juggling keys and grocery bags and her jacket. "God, it smells good in here. Lucky one of us can – " She stops and listens carefully. "Ziva?"

The sound of the shower running is all the answer Buffy needs. Guess even master chefs have to take breaks from the stove-slaving to get pretty before company comes.

Dumping everything on the counter haphazardly, she opens the oven door and almost groans in appreciation at the smell that wafts out. Garlic and rich tomato and fresh herbs, probably from the tiny balcony garden they'd planted a couple of weekends ago.

It brings to mind memories of cloth-covered tables bathed in warm sunshine, custard filled cannoli and bread dipped in olive oil. Sweet strong coffee in ceramic cups – good enough to make even Gibbs bow down and pray to whatever God he believes in. The constant ebb and flow of not-quite-understood conversation around the hum of scooter traffic on cobblestoned streets. A fleeting taste of a life she could have had forever, were it not for that pesky slayer sense of duty.

"Is this what they mean when they say someone is trying to breathe in their food?" Ziva asks in amusement.

Buffy closes the oven door with a thud. "Inhale their food," she says, shaking off the memory. "And no, it's not." She can't help raising an eyebrow in amusement at Ziva's current state of undress. "I hope you're not planning wearing _that_ to dinner. Don't want to put our guests off their meal."

Clad in only a towel, Ziva smacks Buffy's hand lightly when she reaches into the salad bowl for a plump cherry tomato. "I thought the kitchen had been invaded by elephants, you were making so much noise," Ziva teases, her hair dripping water onto the tiled floor.

"Clearly _not_ an elephant, though if you keep cooking food like this I might be one day, when my handy slayer metabolism burns itself out," Buffy replies, her eyes straying to the hand that's tucked behind Ziva's back. "Good day?"

"The highlight of my day was finding a store that sold the right kind of flour for the pasta," Ziva replies a tad snippily. "There have been no leads on the sudden influx of demons in certain areas of the city, and I have so far been unable to find a match for the symbols you recorded last week at the Anacostia crime scene." She sighs, her frustration evident. "Also, if I have to watch one more minute of daytime television, I may snap and start killing indiscriminately, just to see if I remember how."

"That's a no then, huh?"

Ziva turns abruptly and heads for her room without bothering to reply, muttering in Hebrew as she walks away. Buffy watches her go silently, knowing better than to follow for awhile. Instead, she starts unpacking the grocery bags, cleaning up the kitchen and spacious living room as she goes. Bits and pieces of their stuff – sweaters, books, weapons – seem to collect around the apartment like dust bunnies under the couch.

Still, the place has lost the sheen of newness and become comfortable, the closest thing to a home she's really had since Revello Drive disappeared into the earth. Not that she's there much – in between the insane office hours at NCIS, ICWS business and patrolling, she's 'all work no hang' Buffy these days.

Maybe that – along with her dislike of being cooped up, and the distinct lack of a certain Senior Field Agent around the apartment lately – is what's making Ziva so cranky lately. Buffy gets it. Really, she does.

The time she spent in Rome – a few months after Sunnydale turned into California's answer to the Grand Canyon – was heaven at first, wandering around with no real goal other than to just **not** be The Slayer for a few blissful days. Right up until she realized that the churning in her gut – which she took for the nervous tension of being in a new place – was actually_ guilt_ that she was here, relaxing and soaking up culture (with her new credit card, thanks to 'retroactive service payments' from the council funds), while back home people were still working their tails off to make the New Council dream a reality. So she'd flown home despite the Scoobies' protests, figuring they'd find the time to go back there someday – _together_.

More than six years later, they still haven't made it and given how things are at the moment, Buffy doubts they ever will.

Unearthing a few Scrabble tiles from underneath the coffee table, she grins at the reminder of the loud and vehement Scrabble Death Match between McGee, Abby and Ziva two nights ago. _Her_ vocabulary has certainly been extended, listening to Abby describe all the ways she could kill McGee for cheating with obscure computer terms like 'catdoc' and 'macutils'.

McGee had looked kinda cute actually, all pink-faced and earnest, trying to translate Geek in order to prove his point as Abby argued and Ziva watched them quietly with a fond smile.

Bad, Buffy. Bad, rule-breaking thoughts.

Ziva appears from around the corner and pads quietly into the kitchen, dressed casually in jeans and a dark green tank top. She gathers her hair away from her face and clips it back, curls spilling over her shoulders. The traces of frustration are still evident in her face.

"You need to spar it out?" Buffy asks lightly. Ziva sighs, picking up a knife and slicing crusty bread into thick wedges with deft hands. The knife slams into the wooden cutting board steadily as Ziva studiously avoids Buffy's gaze.

"Perhaps later," she replies. Buffy grins, setting the last of the books back on the almost-filled shelves. Thanks to the Coalition librarians and Ziva's hunting through used bookshops, they're gathering quite the odd collection of classic novels, chick lit, DVDs and reference books of the demon variety. Not exactly your average library.

She decides not to ask why Ziva had her gun – or possibly a knife, but given the amount of weapons stashed around the apartment, she's going with gun – in the bathroom. Probably for the same reason that Buffy always has a stake or knife on her somewhere. Between the two of them, they're not exactly the poster girls for stable and well-adjusted, though Buffy likes to think of it as being prepared for all circumstances. Kind of like a really twisted version of the Girl Scouts.

She could really go some Thin Mints right about now. It's been a long time since lunch.

"….let you go home early?" Ziva asks from within the pantry, her voice echoing oddly in the enclosed space as she hunts through the shelves. She backs out quickly and nudges the door closed with her hip.

"Quiet day at the office, I guess. We haven't caught a major case all week. Actually, the most interesting thing I did today was chat with Vance about antiques."

Ziva looks at her oddly. "He does not seem the type."

"To chat, or to collect antiques? It was a gift, I think, and that's the thing about gifts – you can't choose whether you get teapots with holes or Yanni CD's or… y'know, _death_." The word slips out before she can help it, but if Ziva notices the twist of her mouth she doesn't mention it. Time for a change in subject. "Did Giles say what time his flight landed?"

"About an hour ago, but he was insistent about taking a cab despite my offer to collect him from the airport."

"Probably because oh, I don't know, he wants to make it here without tasting his airplane lunch a second time?" Ziva grabs something from the counter. "Hey!" Buffy says indignantly, catching the small flying object easily, then grinning and popping it into her mouth. "Punishment via overfeeding. Me likey. You can stay on the island, cranky tomato-thrower."

"Be thankful that the tomatoes were closer than my knife."

"I'm shaking in my socks," Buffy replies dryly. "Save the ninja knife skills for patrol later, Zee. You might need them tonight. I told the team to wear something they weren't afraid to get dusty."

At that, Ziva looks up curiously. "You have given in to their request to go with us on patrol?" Tony and Tim have been pestering Buffy for weeks, both on and off the job, and their growing frustration at her constant denial has been a source of amusement for both women.

"If by 'given in' you mean secured two weeks of no paperwork and free lunches, then yeah, you could say that." At Ziva's low chuckle of appreciation, Buffy shrugs. "Key rule of negotiation. Always hold out for a better offer."

Steady footsteps approach the door outside from the elevator, accompanied by the faint sound of suitcase wheels whirring over carpet. Buffy grins. "Either Giles is moving in, or he brought presents!"

"I would not – " Ziva starts, but Buffy has already moved toward the door and raised on tiptoe to look through the peephole. She swings the door open as the elevator announces the arrival of a second guest.

"Enjoy your time in the – what did you call it – oh, a tin can with wings?" she asks Giles with a grin. "Or did you spring for first class this time?" She steps aside and waits for him to cross the threshold, her hand touching his arm briefly. Just to make doubly sure.

Giles parks the suitcase just inside the door, his eyes crinkled in that fond look he gets when he's around his 'children' these days. Like he can't find the words to tell them how proud he is. "I would not deign to use Coalition resources for such a frivolous thing," he says firmly, giving Ziva a friendly nod.

"Whipped out that Amex Black Card again, didn't you." Buffy grins.

"I may have," he admits, matching her smile. "Forgive me for not understanding how people can travel for hours when squashed together like sardines."

"Or sitting on boxes of them in the back of military cargo planes," Tony adds cheerfully as he enters the apartment, dressed in jeans and an Ohio State t-shirt and brandishing a bottle of wine. "_Buonasera, Casa di Ninjas_! Consider this a down payment, Buff, for not letting anything bite me later."

"Payment?" Giles echoes with a hint of disapproval.

"You're not into biting?" Buffy asks mischievously at the same time. "Good to know. And before you get all huffy about charging for services rendered, Giles – when Tony says payment, he means…"

She shoots a helpless look at Ziva, who is staring at Tony with an unreadable expression. Huh. No help forthcoming there, obviously. "Uh, let's go and discuss this further on the balcony," she says quickly, closing the apartment door and grabbing Giles' arm with a pointed look.

"Lovely night, isn't it?" he says as they step out into the mild night air, and not for the first time she thanks whoever sent Giles as her Watcher all those years ago. He's nothing if not perceptive (most of the time), and if anyone needs a moment alone, it's the two people left inside the apartment, who are so far seemingly incapable of doing anything other than having dirty hot eyesex in social situations. And that one-time PDA session outside NCIS Headquarters.

It's about time someone pushed _them_ into sparring it out, even if Buffy's not entirely sure that given the choice between a tomato and a knife, Ziva wouldn't go for the blade.

"Now, Buffy," Giles prompts with eyebrows raised. "Do define 'payment' for me."

* * *

Ziva's not sure whether she wants to hug Buffy or (try to) kill her for her neat and not-at-all-subtle exit from the room. It's not the first time Tony's been in their apartment since they moved in, but it's the first time they've been alone. Together. In a small space that's not a wooden bench outside NCIS with curious agents watching through the windows.

She was wearing someone else's face then, so perhaps it doesn't even count.

"How are you?" he asks finally, cutting through the silence.

"I am fine," Ziva answers quickly. Too quickly. Tony steps closer and studies her in a way that makes her skin prickle uncomfortably.

"For someone who spent years going on about how well she could read me, you're not great at remembering your own tricks," he says bluntly, then sighs. "Sorry. Been a long few weeks." Ziva can't help but glance toward the balcony, where Giles is laughing at something that Buffy has just said.

"Is there – "

"Not because of Buffy," Tony offers, having followed her gaze. "She's fitting in fine. Great, even. I think our little Probie has a bit of a crush, actually, though Buffy's either completely oblivious or a much better liar than you are these days."

Ziva grins despite herself, making a mental note to press Buffy for details about it later. Tony matches her grin briefly, then runs his fingers through his hair and sighs.

"Look, I get that now is not the time, but are we ever gonna have this conversation? Or are we going to be Ross and Rachel and dance around the subject until I end up engaged to some English girl and you fly across the world to break up a wedding that's broken before you even get there? You'd have to fly commercial, unless ICWS has a private plane you can hijack."

"They do, but I would only have to ask," she says, stalling time as she tries to collect her thoughts. Tony looks mildly appreciative.

"They have underwater jet packs and dagger-toed shoes as well?"

"I do not know," Ziva replies, relaxing into the familiarity of the exchange. "It is possible. You watch _Friends_?"

He looks mildly surprised. "_You_ watch Friends?"

"I have a lot of spare time lately," Ziva replies, chafing at the reminder that she's more or less useless these days. Not _entirely_ useless, but certainly not doing anything that Buffy or Giles couldn't do themselves. "Do you want a drink?" She turns away from him and opens the refrigerator door. Not hiding, just… stalling. "We have – "

"Ziva," Tony says, suddenly so close she can feel his breath on the back of her neck. He's backed up against the counter – wide-eyed and with her knife to his throat – before Ziva realizes what she's doing. The knife slips from her boneless hand and clatters to the tile floor.

"Sorry, I – sorry," she stammers, backing away. "You – " She does not want to admit how much he startled her, she who has always prided herself on being unflappable. Tony catches her wrist and pulls her back towards him gently until she's standing in front of him but not quite touching. His hand is warm on her bare skin.

"If you didn't want to answer, you could have just said so," he says wryly. "No need to pull out the weaponry." Sighs. "And… don't apologise. Sign of weakness."

"I am not on Gibbs' team anymore," Ziva says with a touch of bitterness. She understands why, but it doesn't make it sting any less. "I do not have to follow his rules."

"That might be the best news I've heard all day," Tony jokes, his green eyes dancing, and Ziva can't help but smile. He loosens his grip on her arm and braces himself on the counter, watching her carefully. "Look, I'm not expecting everything to go back to how it was before you – before," he says in a more subdued voice. "But you don't have to lie to me. Knife against my throat pretty much gives me my answer, anyway."

"I feel like I am an outsider," she admits, to her surprise as much as Tony's. "I cannot be a liaison, and I do not understand enough about the supernatural yet to be particularly useful as a Watcher, and watching American daytime television makes me want to empty my clip into the screen, as entertaining as watching the dregs of society brawl onstage while the audience shouts 'Jerry' repeatedly may be. It is… frustrating."

"Well, there's always the DiNozzo master list of 'must see movies', if you're really bored. You might even pick up some new spy tricks. Plus, I'm pretty sure nobody would turn you away if you wanted to visit the Navy Yard occasionally. Gibbs might pretend to be grumpy, but he wouldn't kick you out; and I hear that Buff read Vance the riot act about poking his nose into ICWS business, so he probably won't have the balls to complain."

That reminds Ziva that she never really got the full story on what happened with Vance and the… teapot? Another thing to ask Buffy about later.

"We will see," she says simply. The doorbell chimes in the sudden silence, and outside Buffy turns around and raises an eyebrow questioningly. Ziva beckons her in and Buffy obliges, sliding the glass door open and heading for the entrance. "You are coming on patrol after dinner, yes?" she asks Tony quietly as voices spill into the living room. McGee and Abby, she guesses from the sheer amount of words in a short time.

"That's the plan," he replies, eyes fixed on hers. They sparkle with sudden mirth. "Why, you worried I might out-stake you?"

"I am more worried about what films you could possibly find to quote in that situation," she shoots back, pushing past him gently to check the lasagna as Abby spots them and waves. Thankfully, she doesn't attempt to come over, and Ziva is again thankful for the perceptive people in her life. "After patrol, perhaps we could have that talk, if you are up to it."

"Hey, I can handle myself!" he protests, and Ziva glances over her shoulder at him.

"I do not doubt that," she says quietly. "But being in the field with Buffy is a little different to being in the field with Gibbs. Things are… it is a different world."

"Well for one thing, I'm betting the Buffster doesn't shop at Sears," Tony responds. Ziva rolls her eyes.

"Tony!" Abby calls, and he holds up a finger in a 'wait a minute' gesture. Turns back to Ziva and smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He steps forward and leans in close enough so that she can inhale his cologne and a hint of something distinctly… Tony.

"Sure thing, sweetcheeks. If I don't get eaten or knocked unconscious, it's a date."

Behind him Abby watches them fondly, giving Ziva an enthusiastic thumbs up when their eyes meet. His hand finds hers and squeezes gently, a chaste gesture that reminds her of childhood and yet coming from Tony – the self-professed king of smooth – is just awkward enough to be endearing. He pulls away with a regretful look and moves to join the others in the living room, leaving Ziva to busy herself with the food and pretend that her heart isn't suddenly thumping in her chest.

"I hope that was worth me getting a semi-lecture from Giles about bartering patrol privileges for goods and services," Buffy says suddenly, having let Ducky and Gibbs in and broken away from the group to help with the food. She leans over the counter and taps Ziva lightly on the shoulder. "Ground control to Major Tom!"

"I heard you fine," Ziva says, handing Buffy the bread and salad. "_Toda_." She's not talking about Buffy's offer to help serve the food.

"It's no big. True friendship means never having to say 'you can't do that in public'," Buffy says a little too loudly, then snorts at the sudden surprised silence. "C'mon, don't tell me you don't know what that meant. Except Giles, because the day I ask to hear your sex stories will be the day I willingly go clothes shopping in Sears."

Tony shoots her a look that is classic 'I told you so,' and Ziva almost drops the lasagne, she's laughing so hard. Gibbs looks between the two of them in a mix of exasperation and amusement, but doesn't say anything.

"My dear girl, I could tell you stories that would make your toes curl," Ducky says with a wicked glint in his eye. "For example, there was one memorable time on the observation deck of the Eiffel Tower, with – "

"Who's ready to eat?" Buffy interrupts loudly and with no small amount of barely-restrained laughter. Ziva gets the feeling that this is a game they've played before, if the reactions from the rest of the team are any indication. Sure enough, Abby comes over to grab the other pan of lasagne and whispers to her.

"My theory? They're trying to see how far they can push the guys before they snap and interrupt Ducky. Once he almost got to the part where the woman knelt – "

"Enough, Abby," Ziva says hurriedly, and when Abby claps her hands and turns to Ducky in triumph Ziva knows she's been had, but grins anyway. It's nice to be part of the team again.

* * *

_**A/N #2**._ Next chapter - McGee gets a lesson in graveyard etiquette, Abby shows just how much research she's done about vampires and someone learns that being sneaky has its downfalls, especially with a Slayer on the case.

_Reviews appreciated as always. :D _


	20. Raising the Stakes

**A/N:** This chapter is dedicated to **Lisette.** Back in the day when my fandoms of choice were HP/Buffy, I read a kick-ass Buffy-centric trilogy (BtVS/Pretender/HP) she wrote that pretty much changed the way I thought about fanfic. I never forgot it, and was most surprised to see her pen name pop up in a series of (awesome) reviews of Lost and Found.

Thanks for making my day - and a massive thank you to_ everyone_ who's taken the time to review. Hope you enjoy! :)

* * *

"… and by the time Gibbs showed up, Not-Marshall was in a world of pain on the ground – by the way, Ziva, did I ever thank you for that stun gun? – and yet still finding time to perve on the hot chick in the itchy pink polyester. I'm not sure what was worse, the fact that he was trying to kill me, or the thought of dying dressed like Career Girl Barbie!"

The laughter echoes through the room at Abby's obvious indignation, and though he joins in, McGee can't help but wince internally at the memory. Opposite him, Buffy is looking at Abby with new appreciation, her blonde hair shifting and settling gently around her face as she shakes her head.

He's suddenly wondering when the movement of Buffy's hair became something worth describing. Must be an author thing, he decides, setting the scene and all that. It couldn't possibly be because she wears it up at work, and she looks… softer, somehow, with it loose and curling around her face like that. Softer and younger and…

Oh.

Tim wonders if Gibbs has an internal radar for '_mens rea'_ – the guilty mind – because his Boss fixes steady blue eyes on him for a split second and suddenly his mind seems very guilty indeed. He makes an effort to concentrate on the conversation and not to look at Gibbs, because the man is basically a coffee-powered lie detector, and he's not keen for a repeat of the last polygraph disaster – however informal.

"I took this test on Career Day in high school," Buffy is saying with a rueful smile, "that was probably rigged to put me in the right place at shoot-out-o'clock, now that I think about it, but anyway – it predicted I had a bright future in the world of law enforcement."

"What happened?" Tony asks curiously from his spot in the kitchen, where he's drying the last of the dishes and sneaking the occasional glance at Ziva in a way that he probably thinks is discreet. McGee tries not to roll his eyes, thinking that there are two good things about Buffy being on the team. One; he doesn't have to be privy to the Tony and Ziva Show, screening ten hours a day in a bullpen near him. Two – well, working with Buffy is… hmm, not exactly a trial.

"Oh, my Career Day mentor turned out to be an assassin in disguise and turned her so-not-licensed gun on me, kicking off my embargo on firearms and my dislike for law enforcement in one fell swoop," Buffy says casually, as if almost being killed is an everyday occurrence for her.

It occurs to McGee that perhaps it _is_, and if he wasn't a little nervous about what's to come, he might be now. It's one thing to be curious about her – and by extension, _Ziva's_ – world. It's quite another to volunteer oneself for front-line duty, even if it's a one time only thing.

The key word here is _volunteer_, because in the end it was his choice to come, and it will be his choice to leave, and that seems to be more than he can say for Buffy and Giles, though admittedly he doesn't have the full story.

Not that he's thinking of backing out. It will be invaluable for the plot of the novel that's been dancing around in his head since he walked into the morgue and saw Buffy beating on somebody that for all intents and purposes should logically have been… well, _dead_.

After all, he likes to base his writing loosely on real-life events, even if your average reader wouldn't believe a word of it. His editor certainly seemed to think his proposed new foray into fantasy was 'charming and quite imaginative, like Anne Rice meets The OC.'

Tim hopes that quote isn't destined for the dustcover.

"Earth to Timmy," Abby whispers in his ear, and McGee is jolted back into the real world. "Party's moving to the lounge. Buffy and Ziva went to raid their armoury, and I think Mr Giles has a bedtime story for us while they talk weapons. A week of lunches says it's the kind that will make me lock the coffin from the inside."

"I'm not wagering," he replies under his breath as he sinks down into the couch, Abby perched on the arm beside him. He already owes Buffy _two_ weeks, because Tony will inevitably find some way to make him pay for their takeout despite the Senior Field Agent being the one to start the bargaining in the first place.

"McChatty! Ssh!" Tony says from his place on Tim's right, even though Mr Giles hasn't even started talking yet.

McGee bites back the unkind retort that's right on the tip of his tongue, because as tired as he is sometimes by the Tony and Ziva show, he can't quite bring himself to use Ziva as an insult against Tony. Not after seeing Tony's reaction to his snarky comment about Jeanne months ago, and especially not when he sees how _awkward_ the two of them are around each other.

"In the interests of not bombarding you with information, and also because Buffy and I have made a bet that I couldn't get my explanation down to under two minutes – "

"What do you get if you win?" Abby asks curiously.

"Oh, I've promised to be his slave," Buffy says lightly from her bedroom door, now dressed in worn jeans and a dark sweater, her hair tied back from her face. Ziva appears from beside her, dressed similarly in dark clothing and frowning a little at Buffy's choice of words. She whispers something and Buffy's grin turns to a look of horror. "But not in a kinky way, because appreciation for lights and sirens and public – " Giles clears his throat in a rather horrified way, " – uh, hand-holding – does _not_ run in the family, though I gotta give Mom props for the stevedore thing."

Silence descends on the room in the wake of her words. Mr Giles fumbles with his glasses and starts polishing them furiously, as Gibbs and Ducky cough discreetly and Abby lets out a little murmur of what might be… appreciation? McGee promptly chokes on air at the unwelcome image that pops into his head, and receives a hearty pat on the back from Tony, who's wearing the look that means he's about to ask something completely -

"Are we talking the grape-feeding kind of slave, or – " he winces with the impact, " – thanks Boss, I think I needed that."

Buffy looks around the room and bites her lower lip at their expressions. "Actually, I mean I have to buy him lunch for a week, which is far less mysterious but somehow more socially appropriate than suggestions of the naughty kind of slavery and whoa, did someone spike my coffee with essence of vengeance demon, because I'm channelling Anya."

Buffy and Giles share a slightly sad look that Tim can't quite decipher. He's not sure who Anya is exactly, but she certainly seems to be channelling_ somebody_, because her speech patterns usually tend less toward – well, it reminds him a little of Abby at the peak of Caf-Pow absorption.

"I suspect she would be beaming with pride," Mr Giles says faintly.

Buffy nods in agreement; mirth shining in her eyes as she looks pointedly at her watch and his expression changes in sudden realisation. Seeing the head of an international organisation roll his eyes at the scheming of a blonde cheerleader-type makes McGee feel far less anxious about patrolling, somehow. It's the equivalent of a Gibbs slap delivered to the back of his head when he's gotten too bogged down in the technicalities to present the basic facts.

Though he really could have done without the new and disturbing association between Giles and 'lights and sirens'.

"Now that my efforts to give you some theoretical background have been effectively sabotaged by a member of my own organisation, shall we skip the exposition and start organising our plan of attack?"

At that, Buffy grins. "Works for me." Her eyes sweep over each of them appraisingly, and McGee gulps at the intensity of her gaze. "First, we need to relocate, because Capitol Hill? Not so much with the demons, and Giles might explain why – " She shoots Giles a questioning glance, suddenly unsure, and he nods briefly " – after we get back. I don't think you'll get the fine print if you don't get to see the bigger picture first. Now." Buffy hefts a sizeable bag onto her shoulder with an ominous shifting of metal against wood, and McGee can't help but reconsider his need for real-time research. "Who's riding with me, and who's riding with Ziva?"

It's mostly because of Ziva's abominable driving that he's the first one to volunteer to ride in Buffy's car. Or at least that's what he'll tell Abby and Tony later, because from the way Abby pokes him in the ribs she's hanging out for the right time to ask and oh, won't that be all kinds of fun.

At least there'll be time for contemplation – and maybe some questions – about what they're getting themselves into on the drive over.

He wonders if it would be childish to call shotgun.

"Shotgun!" Abby cries triumphantly, looking like the cat that ate the canary.

Guess not.

"Did you know," Ducky interjects, "that that particular term originated from the days of the Wild West, when the passenger next to the driver of the wagon was responsible for fending off bandits and thieves during the journey? Most atrocious circumstances for anyone to have to drive under."

"No need to call shotgun for Ziva's car, then," Tony jokes, edging away from her slightly as he says it, "Nobody would ever get close enough to line up a good shot."

"That is the point, Tony," Ziva says patiently, giving McGee the sense that she's tried to explain this to him before. "If you continue to move in unpredictable ways, it is harder for would-be enemies to staple down your location."

"Pin, Ziva," Tony corrects out of habit, and Ziva's eyes sparkle in a way that suggests the error was intentional. "Your intimate knowledge of office supplies is slipping."

The look she gives him is almost enough to make McGee blush, and yet there's the barest flicker of annoyance at Tony's ill-timed joke. "I had thought of a few new uses for a paperclip," Ziva says slowly, her voice low and throaty. "Perhaps I will get the chance to try them out tonight. In the spirit of being an unpredictable target." Tony blinks at her slowly and McGee pointedly looks away.

Ducky's eyes light up. "Remind me to tell you the story of Alexander II, Tsar of Russia, who - "

"Not now, Duck."

"My apologies Jethro, I was merely trying to - "

"Shotgun doesn't count when you can't see the car," McGee protests half-heartedly as the others continue to chat, at which Abby points out the window of the apartment and then looks at him expectantly. She turns to Tony and starts arguing the specifics of the so-called distance requirement. McGee sighs, apparently destined to be continually resigned to the middle of the backseat - wholly unfair, given that he and Tony are exactly the same height and there's plenty of room in both cars for nobody to have to -

"Were we this tangent-y?" he hears Buffy ask Giles in a low voice. "Because I swear, if I didn't have a good set of lungs..."

"Perhaps even more so," Giles replies in the same undertone, and she blinks. "It's quite tiring, trying to interrupt with an 'oh dear' when those you are meant to be directing keep nattering on and on, is it not?"

"That's because it usually took an 'oh good lord' before we knew you meant business," Buffy says with a grin, then puts her fingers in her mouth and lets out a whistle that sends a collective wince through the room. "Sorry," she offers in a louder voice, shrugging in a completely un-apologetic manner. "You all done debating assassination attempts and shotgun rules and whatever, because I'm itching to sink my stake into something and I can't promise I'll be patient forever."

McGee's fairly sure she's joking, but just in case, he makes a mental note to call his editor in the morning and shelve the latest book outline.

He'll take Tony's idle threats and constant needling over potentially being turned into a coat rack by an angry Slayer any day.

* * *

"Buffy, truck! TRUCK!"

The eighteen-wheeler blows past them far too close for comfort, the blast of the horn blowing all semblance of rational thought out of Tim's head (bar a silent vow not to comment on Ziva's bad driving ever again).

Buffy flashes him a smile in the rearview mirror that makes him very glad he's not undead, because it's pretty much exactly what he imagines vampires see as they take their last – do vampires breathe?

"I'm starting to understand why Gibbs sees her as an equal," Tony mutters, interrupting his musing. "God, if this was a movie – it'd be a really twisted version of _Interview with the Vampire_. Gibbs could do the interviewing, and if Lestadt jumped him in the backseat afterwards Buffy could pop up and rip off his head."

Buffy snorts with laughter, and the resulting swerve of the car makes Abby let out a little squeak. She turns around just long enough to glare at them. "Tony, I have big plans to die peacefully in my coffin after a month-long send-off bash – not screaming my way down a one-way street the wrong 'one way' – so for the love of all that is holy, will you zip it until we're parked safely?"

It's the same tone Abby uses when she's received a summons to testify in court, the knife edge of nerves coupled with a bit of passive-aggressive anger and exasperation.

Tony shuts up.

"It's harder than it looks," Buffy says mildly, and Tony shoots McGee a half-horrified, half-amused glance. "Forced decapitation. All that pesky bone and muscle. Much easier to use a broadsword or a meat grinder or… something."

McGee doesn't quite know how to respond to that. The seatbelt tightens to the point of pain for the seventeenth time, distracting him. It might be a little sadistic that he's counting, but in the midst of the chaos some order is required, if only to keep him from snapping at Abby for digging her fingernails into the hand that's gripping the back of her seat.

Little crescent moons wink back from his flesh as McGee rolls back his sleeves and wonders if there's a discreet way to throw up and still maintain his manly image. Not getting vomit all over himself might be a good start. Or even not vomiting at all.

It's funny how the approaching freight train of mind-numbing fear can be derailed in one short trip across town. Mostly because he's too occupied with trying not to be sick to grasp the full extent of the sanity fail that is a group of Navy cops and one forensic scientist prowling around graveyards looking for vampires and monsters.

"Are we there yet?" Abby asks in a sing-song voice that sounds suspiciously like she's starting to enjoy the ride. Then again, she _has_ known Gibbs longer than any of them, so it's not surprising that she's used to lunatic driving.

They pull into a nearly-deserted parking lot with a screech of brakes, Buffy expertly manoeuvring the car into a space next to a black Mini that McGee recognises as Ziva's and killing the engine.

Said ex-liaison waits with Gibbs, a smirk firmly planted on both their faces as they watch Tony, Abby and McGee spill out as though there's a rocket launcher trained on the car and they've just been told they have three seconds to live.

"Shotgun riding back with Ziva," Tony says immediately, looking as though he'd like to drop to his knees and kiss the gritty concrete beneath his feet. "I'm pretty sure we went airborne at one point, and even if you're a superhero, some things just aren't meant to fly."

"Really?" Buffy asks innocently, digging through the duffel bag and tossing each of them a stake. "You mean like aerosols? I get that. Add a lighter and you've got a handy – if slightly volatile – flamethrower. Not really something you want on a plane. And since we're on the subject of weapons…"

Ziva's smirk widens into a genuine smile, and not for the first time McGee wonders what the two women do in their spare time. The thought of them sitting in their apartment bonding over all the different ways to subdue a person – or demon, as it may be – makes him shift uncomfortably and wish he'd kept a few pairs of his pre-weight loss pants.

From Tony's sudden glazed expression, it's clear his thoughts have taken a similar detour into the gutter. "_Girlfight_," he says a little dreamily. Out of reach, Gibbs raises an eyebrow at Abby, who winds up and punches them both on the arm. Hard.

"Lesson the first," Buffy says. "That bit of wood you're all holding? Completely useless unless you remember one key point. It's no cape. Holding it doesn't make you a superhero, and if you've got any delusions of whaling on vampires like you're Blade, get over them." She looks directly at Tony. "I'm not saying that ordinary people can't do extraordinary things. I know plenty of humans without the slayer package who still manage to hold their own," she adds quietly. "But shiny perfect superheroes only exist in comic books."

Tony lets out a sigh of disappointment, but McGee can't tear his eyes away from Buffy long enough to shoot the Senior Field Agent an 'I told you so' look.

He's known almost from the start what Buffy is, but seeing her draped in shadows with a stake in her hand and a serious expression on her face, Tim begins to realise exactly what's at stake here. All bad jokes aside.

"Two," Buffy continues, eyeing the gun that Gibbs is wearing prominently on his hip. "Keep the guns if they make you feel safe, but keep in mind that if you're fixated on waving it around like a sparkler on Independence Day, you're more dangerous to yourself – or one of your teammates – than you are to the demons."

"Are there things that can –"

"In general? Yeah. Some things die when you – " Her eyes go to Gibbs' gun again, and she pauses visibly to collect herself. "But most of the locals are vamps, and they'll probably just laugh at you and then go for your throat. Stake to the heart? Might sound like it belongs in the Dark Ages, but so do most of the things that you can kill with it. Fire with fire and all that." She looks at Abby curiously. "Uh, Abby? I'm all for patrolling in style, but your… accessory… seems to have sprung a leak."

Huh?

Abby grins, poking at the garish plastic flower pinned to her chest. McGee's not sure what's more disturbing, the sight of Abby wearing something that's acid pink with a smiley face in the centre, or the similarities that it has to something a clown might use to –

"Hey!" he protests when the spurt of water hits his face from a good three feet away. He's not sure that he wants any vampire getting near enough to Abby to smell her pretty – okay, disgustingly ugly – flower, given the proximity of her carotid artery to that region.

"Holy water," she offers with no small amount of glee, opening her palm to show them the jury-rigged tube and bulb mechanism. "I might have been kicked out of the Girl Scouts for having inappropriate patches on my tunic, but I was there long enough to absorb a certain lesson about being prepared."

A quick flip of her leather jacket reveals a miniature Camelback-esque device strapped to her back. "I wanted a skull, but all they had at the joke shop were these tacky flowers. Sister Rosita was happy to procure the anti-vamp juice without too many questions."

"Remind me to introduce you to Faith next time she's in town," Buffy says, much to Ziva's amusement. "I'm pretty sure the two of you – " She stops mid-sentence and tilts her head slightly, listening. After a minute she shrugs and relaxes a little, and Tim lets out a breath he didn't even realise he was holding. "Sorry. For a minute I could've sworn there was – "

"Hey, where are Ducky and Giles?" McGee asks suddenly.

"Decided not to come," Gibbs says abruptly, his eyes still on Buffy. Nobody dares to ask for clarification. "There a problem?" She shakes her head.

"If there is, it'll make itself known eventually," she says matter-of-factly. "I'm pretty much a lightning rod for things that go bump in the night, especially after Sunnydale fell and we gained a certain – notoriety – in the underworld. Part of the whole 'sacred destiny to stop the forces of darkness' gig. There's always something waiting for their one good day."

McGee sometimes likes to think that he escaped his own pre-written destiny as a computer geek by joining NCIS. He can't imagine someone telling him that he was destined to write and crack code for the rest of his short life and there was nothing he could do about it. He definitely can't imagine being told that if he doesn't write a certain line into the program or figure out the key to an encryption cipher before the clock strikes zero, people will die, and then _more_ people, and the world will end.

He _is_ starting to understand why Buffy and Ziva get along so well, and this particular thought doesn't exactly inspire a certain glazed expression.

Buffy picks up a crossbow and balances it in her hand, testing the weight. "Anyway, all random segues aside… in my world, the normal rules don't apply."

"Did you hear that, Timmy?" Tony says immediately in a high-pitched voice. It's quite disconcerting to see a grown man and federal agent flutter his eyelashes that way.

"Obviously not the same way you did, Tony," he shoots back, already guessing where this is going.

"We can finally be together!" He steps carefully away from both Abby and Gibbs. "Ours is a forbidden love," he deadpans to Buffy, who splutters out a slightly horrified laugh as Abby hits Tony between the eyes with a stream of water. He pouts, wiping his face. "Jealousy isn't a good look on you, Abs."

"And that's right up there – along with the image of Giles protecting and serving – on the list of things Buffy really doesn't need to know," Buffy interrupts, waving her crossbow dangerously. "If anybody sees any mouthless demons lurking about, stay well clear so I can kill them from a safe distance, because telepathy? Surprisingly less fun than you'd think."

"Buffy," Ziva starts.

"There's not enough antidote in the world to heal the damage that never-ending movie quotes and bow-chicka-bow-wow thoughts could cause," Buffy continues with a grin.

"Buffy – "

If anything, her voice only gets louder and perkier, and sometime during her one-sided conversation the weapons have disappeared. Huh. "Okay, I know, that was way harsh and I'm – "

If there's anything McGee's learned during Ziva's time on the MCRT, it's that her instincts are pretty sharp, and that when she uses a certain tone of voice she's not messing around. So it's really no surprise that when he follows her gaze he sees a group of little yellow lights blinking in and out at them from within the treeline.

Wait. Not lights.

Tim hopes that it's not obvious how hard his heart is suddenly pounding – though given the whole Slayer hearing thing, Buffy can probably hear the contents of his stomach turn over and try to crawl their way to safety via his lower intestine.

If something looks like a dog, and smells like a dog, and wags its tail (and maybe tries to attack you and then ends up becoming your pet because he's on some kind of cosmic treadmill of irony and that's generally how these things work out for him) it's –

Probably going to be a vampire, because if he's not on the treadmill of irony he's getting his ass handed to him on a silver platter by the god of perpetual stupidity. Volunteering to fight supernaturally strong, glowing-eyed, throat biting demons with a stick of wood?

There just aren't enough cheat codes in the world to give him the advantage in that fight.

* * *

**A/N:** _If you're looking for spoilers, the name of the next chapter is 'Run and Catch'. That's all I'm going to give away. ;) Will most likely be up this afternoon, once I've edited and continuity/characterization checked it, because I'm horribly pedantic that way._

_Reviews = love._


	21. Run and Catch

_**A/N:** Today is the day for trying new things, apparently. I'm a little nervous. Just FYI._

_Hope you... well, hope you don't stone me for it, at least. ;) Maybe even enjoy it?_

* * *

"Rule number four," Buffy says quietly, holding up five fingers without even turning to look behind her. Ziva doesn't quite nod, but her agreement is clear. Buffy looks at each of the NCIS agents in turn. "Don't be a hero. Stay here, stay _together_, and don't try to interfere unless you're damn sure that I'm unconscious, because if I'm not and you get vamped trying to be white knights, I'll have to stake you, and I really _hate_ killing people I used to know. Ka-peesh?"

No argument here. The eyes have faded into the darkness, but he's under no illusions that they've wandered off to impale themselves on tree branches or brood about what they've done.

He doubts that vampires are big on reflecting about their misdeeds anyway, so brooding? Probably not a likely outcome.

Ziva doesn't say anything, just looks at them evenly and then follows Buffy, both of them striding toward the trees. Abby clenches her fists in frustration and the flower on her chest lets out a little sputtering stream. Gibbs is more or less physically stopping Tony from chasing after them, and for the life of him McGee can't remember why they thought this would be a good idea.

Gibbs almost drags Tony a few feet away from them and hisses something in his ear. They turn away and McGee can't see their faces anymore. Buffy telling them to stick together rings in his ears and he wants to tell them to come back, but from the way Tony's shoulders are set defiantly he looks in need of a good Gibbs-slap to snap him out of his stupid.

"This sucks," Abby says bleakly, "What's their plan, to run into the woods and pretend they got lost on the way to grandmother's house? That's just stupid, even if Buffy is some kind of super mystical warrior and Ziva's not exactly a delicate little flower."

"They can take care of themselves," McGee says with a confidence he hopes will become truth if he fakes it often enough, freezing as something whips through the trees a few feet from where they're standing. "Maybe we want to back up a bit though?" The street light above them flickers and dies as someone – something? – screams in the distance. "Or, maybe we want to, uh, back up a lot? Like, to the car?" Abby's staring at him in a way that Tim really doesn't like. It's almost as if she's afraid of him.

He hits a wall in his attempt to retreat, except they're still in the middle of the parking lot and he doesn't remember them driving through a – oh. Brilliant.

He's not normally the swearing type, but now seems like the perfect time to embrace his inner sailor.

"Fuck."

"Such a dirty mouth," a silky voice says, far closer to his ear than he'd like, and the most disturbing thing is that each word is an icy puff of unscented air on his neck, not warm and blood-soaked like he'd imagined, "Whatever will the stars think, hearing you speak such filth in their presence?"

The hand that's not wrapped around his neck dances up his back, working up over his shoulder blades and snaking down over his chest and not for the first time tonight he wishes he'd thought to bring a spare pair of pants, but for an entirely different reason.

"Tim…"

Abby is squirming in the grip of a meaty-looking vampire with – of all things – the Marine Corps insignia tattooed on his left bicep, though Tim highly doubts that their NCIS connection is going win friends and influence people in these particular circles. And speaking of Marines…

Shit. Gibbs and Tony are in a similar predicament, though from the look on Tony's face he's not so much frozen in fear as planning a grand overthrowing of certain undead captors or maybe figuring out which movie best fits this situation.

"Don't fret," his captor says, her hand settling on his shoulder and radiating ice through his body. "Good little boys will live to see another tea party, and there shall be sweet things for all. Sweeties and cake and pretty little packages with satin bows." Unexpectedly, the cold hands loosen their grip and McGee stumbles forward only to feel her hand grip the back of his jacket. "Be careful where you put your feet, little duckling."

He looks down expectantly. Gravel and broken glass and wayward trash. "There's nothing there," he says stupidly, watching Abby squirm in Marine Vamp's grip, her eyes furious and terrified all at once. His hand moves from her hip up, bunching the black tank and exposing pale skin, and McGee is suddenly filled with rage even as he realises that rushing the guy is probably not going to help things.

The woman lets out a growl of displeasure that's completely at odds with her speaking voice, and moves into Tim's line of sight for the first time, cuffing Abby's captor over the back of the head with a pale hand.

"No touching," she reprimands sharply, her voice a little frayed at the edges, like the lace tablecloth his mom used to spread on the table when company came. From a distance you think it's too full of holes; too tattered to withstand more than the slightest pressure, but if you try to tear it you find out that not only is it stronger than it looks but it might just cut your fucking fingers off.

He's got the scar on the inside of his pinky to prove it.

Tim can't help thinking that if Wednesday Addams was real and grown up – and undead, not to mention obviously a little insane – she might look a bit like this. Dark hair, pale skin and a black dress that seems to just… float around, not settling on one particular curve or another.

She's both the least and most frightening thing he's ever seen in his life, and yet somehow Tim gets the feeling that if they were here to hunt, they'd all be bleeding out on the ground by now – and where the hell are Buffy and Ziva anyway, because it's been almost… huh. Only eight minutes.

Time flies when you're being groped inappropriately by a crazy she-vampire.

"What do you want?" he asks, perhaps a little more forcefully than he intended, backing straight into Abby when – he's going to call her Wednesday, for lack of an actual name – advances on him. Water soaks into the back of his jacket and suddenly he wishes Wednesday would try her spider-fingers trick in that very spot.

"This is definitely a red light situation," McGee says before he can help himself, and something that might be a snort comes from Tony's direction. It's about as close to a 'Good job, Probie' as he's going to get in this situation.

"The duckling has sharp teeth beneath that soft beak," she mutters, looking him up and down in approval. She cocks her head toward the treeline. "Someone is hiding, and they are very good at it," she says thoughtfully. "You should ask yourself why they hide, and whether you want to wait for the full count before you go seeking or cheat, and pretend you are standing still with your hands over your eyes. Mister En-See-Eye-Essss."

She hisses out the last letter like it burns, and for a moment her tongue flickers and she looks alarmingly snakelike. It disappears when he blinks, and she goes back to looking just slightly disconnected from the rest of the world.

"I hate riddles," McGee says with a sigh, and tries not to shudder when she steps forward – too close, _too close_ – and looks up at him with wounded eyes.

"There's music in my head." She steps backward – oh thank god – and twirls on the spot, skirt spinning wildly. "Music and dancing and death. There are things here that don't belong, things with sharp teeth and horns and death pulsing green through their bodies. They will sing their little song and the barriers will fall like soldiers on the front line, one by one with a rattle and crash and _pop pop pop chrrrrr_."

Considering vampires don't really _do_ guns, she sure does a decent job of impersonating one. "I don't understand what you mean."

That hurt look is back again, and Tim decides he likes it better when she's singing and dreamy. Insane vampire is far less scary than petulant pouting vampire, if only because she keeps out of his personal space.

"Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match," Wednesday sings, stepping toward him with a gleam in her eye and rising on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "She's damaged inside, can you see it? They both are, but the music never stops and so they put on their masks and continue to dance." She glances toward the trees again, and now McGee can hear the faint sound of someone pushing their way through the undergrowth. "If the Slayer wants to know how the song is meant to end, she will find him and bring him back to me."

She snaps her fingers and Marine Vamp scowls, but loosens his grip on Abby. She springs away and almost knocks McGee down. "Don't try anything," he warns.

"Did you not hear my speech about dying peacefully in my coffin? That doesn't include a desire to dig my way out of it a few nights later," she hisses back, practically hugging him, but she's warm and fruity-smelling and not at all creepy – and also, remarkably calm under the circumstances. Tim's not about to do anything to mess with that.

There's a scuffle on his left as the vampire holding Gibbs licks his lips and bends down toward the older man's neck, and Tony pushes up and uses his captor's torso as a kind of brace to kick out with his legs. His foot catches the vampire in the hip but rather than let go, Gibbs and vampire go over like dominoes and scrabble around on the ground.

Wednesday hisses in fury and practically picks Eager Vamp up by the scruff of his neck.

"Come!" she says forcefully, and they obey, but not before Tony's vamp turns around and knocks him flat with a punch so hard McGee can practically feel the agent's nose shatter. "Naughty boys who do not listen to Mummy will be… punished," Wednesday assures him, and it's the strangest thing, but he almost believes her.

Almost.

"Tony!" Abby screams, and at that moment Ziva and Buffy burst from the trees, dirty and scruffy and with a few minor cuts and bruises. Seeing the disappearing vampires, Buffy streaks past him in an impressive display of speed, stopping at the edge of the parking lot and carefully looking around in all directions before wheeling around and hurrying back to the ragtag group.

"I'b fide," Tony protests as they hover around him, shrugging off Gibbs' hand and struggling to stand on his own. There's blood all over his shirt. "See? Ready for round two." He sways. Buffy is quick to slip in under his arm and steady him, and is it completely wrong that in that moment McGee's sort of wishing he was the one with a probably-broken nose?

Yeah, perhaps a little bit.

Buffy looks furious, and it takes McGee a moment to realise that she's furious at herself. Maybe a little at Wednesday, because in all fairness it's not like they were standing on the side of the road with bared necks and 'bite me' signs. Clearly, they were being watched, and (if insane vampires are to be trusted) maybe they still are.

The thought makes him scan the parking lot suspiciously, looking for any sign that someone's observing, even though the agent in him knows that there are plenty of ways to watch someone without having to worry about personal proximity. Though he's not sure how your average vampire would know that, or know that they were NCIS agents. And speaking of which – Gibbs and Tony aren't the type to be easily subdued, which just goes to show how much they're out of their depth here.

Ahead, Ziva and Abby have taken over supporting Tony, and it's only then that McGee realises Buffy is walking quietly beside him. He figures she might overlook his lack of finely honed observational skills, given their recent near-death experience and all.

"You okay?" she asks without meeting his eyes.

"Confused as hell," he replies honestly, "but nothing's broken, except maybe my pride."

"If that was who I think it was, then confusion is sort of her modus operandi," Buffy says. "Doesn't help that she's – as Faith describes her – completely batshit crazy, but hey, I've been there. No rocks will be thrown from this glass house."

He wants to ask what she means, but now really isn't the time. "Tony okay?"

"He's debating with Abby whether the punch was more like 'Fight Club' or 'Rocky', so yeah, if I had to hazard a guess I'd say he's not too damaged by the experience," she says through a poor attempt at a smile. It makes her face look wrong somehow, like she's well-practiced at faking it but just can't quite make it stick this time.

The bitter tone still colours her voice, a sign of 'killed a cop, harboured a maybe-murderer, stole Abby's cupcake' levels of blame. Though perhaps the last one is not so dire as the others, even if a certain ex-Mossad assassin was threatening to murder him at the time.

"Stop it," he says suddenly, and Buffy looks at him in surprise. "Stop blaming yourself. You've been on our turf and you know what we do. If you've been listening to Tony you know how many people probably hate him – uh, us. Because we catch criminals, and put them in jail, and that pisses people off sometimes. And, uh…" he trails off, because it suddenly dawns on him who he's talking to and his confidence stalls mid-flight. "We wanted to come – hell, we pestered you to _let_ us come – and if Wednesday had wanted to kill me she could have done it with a snap of her – whoa…"

She could have killed him with a snap of her fingers.

He's thankfully distracted from this thought by the task of fitting four people into Ziva's Mini. It's not so much about not wanting to ride with Buffy as it is that Abby refuses to leave Tony and keeps shooting measured looks at Buffy – not quite angry, but achingly close – and Ziva refuses to let anyone drive her car (and also does not want to leave Tony, though she's not quite as vocal about it as Abby). Gibbs just doesn't seem to care which car he rides in at first, but he looks from McGee to Buffy once, twice, and then gets in to the car and shuts the door without comment.

It's all a little silly, really, because they'll go to the hospital and the doctor will give Tony painkillers and set his nose, and he'll be high as a kite for awhile but otherwise fine. McGee knows too well how Abby gets when one of them is in danger or has been threatened (unless that someone has hurt an animal in self defence in which case _he_, not the animal, would be the bad guy). And as for Ziva – well, he's long since given up trying to crack that hard Mossad shell that she hides anything remotely personal or emotional away in. Though she's not quite so inscrutable these days.

"The first time I saw a vampire," Buffy says finally, her eyes fixed on the tail lights of the disappearing car, "I was fifteen, and more shallow than Tony on one of his insecure days. I completely freaked out, screamed, tried to run – the whole shebang. Now, not so much. It's all plunge and move on, mostly, which makes Giles happy because the lesson finally sunk in and he's all swelled with teacherly pride."

"Fifteen," Tim says disbelievingly, thinking of himself at that age. Mathlete. Computer nerd. Mostly scared of his own shadow. He and Buffy are the calcium carbonate and camembert of adolescent experiences, complete polar opposites in more ways than he has words to describe… and yet he can't stop staring at her lips.

Damn his respect for authority and rules and not being Gibbs-slapped into the next millennium. Damn it to eternal fiery damnation, and it can take Rule Twelve and that Paula Abdul song with it.

"You did good, Tim," Buffy says, putting her hand on his forearm, and he tries very hard not to grin like a complete idiot. Forearms are friendly, right? There's no lines to read between here. Nope. No reason to…

Oh, to hell with it.

Technically, they're still in Buffy's world, and she said herself that normal rules don't apply, and the way she's staring at him wide-eyed and suddenly a little shy makes his internal voice of reason rip up the mental rulebook in outright defiance, set fire to it and start dancing merrily around the flames, chanting about doing unspeakably perverted things to local LEO's.

The sudden heated crush of her lips on his makes the inevitable wrath of Gibbs seem as insignificant an ant raging at an elephant, because suddenly he feels about a hundred feet tall.

* * *

_Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to review so far - you really make my day. ;)_


	22. Kiss and Make Up

**A/N:**_ Thanks again to all the people who have taken the time to review/favourite/add Lost to their story alerts. As always, you rock my world. _

_I'm snowed under with uni work/exam preparation, so updates may be few and far between for the next couple of weeks. I've decided to make them slightly shorter as well, so that the possibility of having chapters finished and edited sooner increases. Less words, more posts. Decent compromise? :)_

_Hope you enjoy..._

* * *

Two men sit at the dining room table in a Capitol Hill apartment, their shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows in the warmth of the comfortably furnished room. A teapot – complete with brightly-knitted, animal-shaped tea cosy, perhaps Buffy's idea of an ironic joke – sits between them on an insulated tray that shields the surface of the table from the heat of the liquid within.

Giles waits silently for his companion to categorize and assimilate the facts he has just heard. _Employing the Dewey decimal system of demonology,_ Caitlin had called it when they had first found her and delivered the fledgling version of what would become their standard speech – once she regained consciousness.

"_Really gotta work on your delivery, G_," Faith had said afterwards. "_Or at least pack a safety helmet for the baby Slayers. You of all people should know that concussion ain't a party everyone wants an invite to."_

He has long since learnt that some situations call for a more subtle approach than the slamming of an ancient tome on the desk of a deserted library.

"I'm not entirely sure that I understand," Dr Mallard ("Ducky, please, or Donald if you must") says thoughtfully, rubbing his chin with his free hand. As if in tandem, their eyes flick to the clock on the far wall of the living room, the smooth constant movement of the second hand marking the passage of time.

It has been a little more than two hours since Dr… since_ Ducky_ politely declined to join Buffy and the others on what his slayer called 'the obligatory field trip for the Introduction to BuffyWorld 101 class', saying that he had already seen more examples of evil in his time than he cared to remember, and certainly felt no inclination to add to his experience.

Sometimes Giles wishes he had been able to make a similar choice.

Though now, thinking of all they've accomplished over the past decade, he wouldn't have it any other way. No, that is not entirely correct. He is proud of what Buffy – what all of them, for the most part – have done and what they have become, but wishes that the universe had not demanded such a high price for their success.

Ducky's voice interrupts his idle musings. "You are saying that certain inclusions in the city planning of downtown DC serve as a deterrent to supernatural influences – that the very layout of the city itself was_ purposely_ constructed to repel demons?"

Giles lifts the delicate china cup to his lips – one of his own, since he had assumed (incorrectly, as it turned out) that Buffy and Ziva would not have the proper tea-serving equipment – and studies Ducky's face without speaking. The seconds tick by as he watches the medical examiner process the implications of this, his face betraying – not confusion per se, but perhaps a touch of bewildered surprise at the extent to which the founders of the city thought to protect its denizens.

"Indeed," he says in reply, smiling slightly as a thought occurs to him. "Though if my time chaperoning incorrigible teenagers has taught me anything, it's that nothing is 'a given'. There is always a way to get around restrictions, whether they be curfews, or prophecies… or even the 'anti-demon' wards inherent in sacred Masonic architecture."

"_Does it say how he's gonna kill me?" _Buffy asks suddenly in his head, her voice small and bleak and scared._ "Do you think it'll hurt?" _

Giles shakes off the ghost of the memory. "Rules are made to be broken, if my young charges are to be believed."

To his great surprise, Ducky stares at him for a long moment and then chuckles with no small amount of amusement. "If Jethro were here," he says when he's regained his composure, "he would likely disagree with you, and with a good deal of understated vehemence to boot."

_If Jethro were here_. The reminder sobers them both, though Giles is nothing if not confident in Buffy's ability to keep those she counts as friends safe from the horrors of the underworld.

"If this is the case," Ducky muses, adjusting his glasses and surreptitiously checking his watch as he does so, "how does one explain the fact that Miss Summers and the others are roaming the streets of Washington, searching for examples of the very demons that you say should not – by all rights – be able to set foot within the city limits?"

And there it is, the reason for the current unrest among the few ICWS agents privy to the real reason for the newly-created Washington field office. All signs point to a gathering of demons and underworld figures in the outskirts of DC, most of them not daring to cross beyond the borders of the city proper, but gathering nonetheless.

Gathering and waiting, though for what they are not sure just yet.

"Given a lack of solid information on the subject it is difficult to do anything more than speculate, but it is possible that the original architects of the city failed to fully protect the city against certain hybrid breeds."

Ducky's eyes spark with understanding. "Such as vampires," he says slowly, shaking his head. "I must confess, a few short weeks ago I would never have entertained the possibility of using that word in an everyday conversation that did not involve one of Tony's much-loved movies."

"Well, there is very little about our world that is truly everyday," Giles muses. "Your average citizen is not privy to certain harsh realities of life, or the fact that 'apocalypse' has a plural. But effectively, yes, vampires appear to be somewhat immune to the effects of the city. The lingering bodily essence of the person that they once were seems to act as a shield, though I imagine they would feel a slight discomfort in the more well-protected areas of town – the National Mall, Capitol Hill and Pennsylvania Avenue, to name a few. More tea?"

They sit for a moment in comfortable silence that is almost a welcome respite from the chatter and bustle of the Academy and the ICWS Head Office. Giles allows himself a moment to enjoy the peace and quiet.

Later, he will wonder when exactly he became such a lightning rod for irony.

"Mr Giles," Abby calls from outside the door, her voice tight with barely-controlled hysteria, and both he and Ducky spring to their feet reflexively at the sound of scuffling and cursing in the hall. "Open Sesame!"

They tumble in as a heap when Giles pulls the door open, Abby and Ziva supporting a clearly injured Agent DiNozzo. Agent Gibbs stands slightly behind the trio, a mixture of amusement and exasperation written on his face. Tony grins dazedly, shrugging off the women holding him up and flopping onto the sofa with what can only be described as a giggle.

"My dear boy," Ducky says in alarm. "What on earth happened to you?"

"Dirty bloodsucker tried t' break his fist with my face," he replies, and Giles frowns and automatically looks to the open doorway. Noticing his glance, Ziva smiles reassuringly at him.

"Buffy and McGee are driving back in Buffy's car," she supplies, then frowns. "I am surprised that they did not beat us here, given that we stopped by the emergency room on the way to have Tony's nose re-set –"

"Zee-vah," Tony interrupts loudly from his near-horizontal position. "Think your remote's broken."

Ziva looks at the object that he's waving and rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "That is because you are trying to switch on the television with my cell phone, Tony. Here." She hands him the remote, her fingers lingering on his perhaps a fraction longer than necessary. Off Giles' look, she adds unnecessarily, "He does not have a good field record with pain medication."

"That's track record, my language-mangling ninja," Tony supplies. "And I don't know what you're talking 'bout. Feel just fine."

Ziva flips open her cell without bothering to respond, her fingers flying over the keys deftly. He watches as she steps away from the group and speaks into the phone in a low voice, the words indistinguishable, making him wonder whether mild hearing loss is actually a side effect of multiple concussive episodes, a fact that Xander likes to tease him with on occasion.

Ironic, given that Xander himself has racked up his fair share of frequent-flyer points in the emergency room over the years.

"Of course you do," Abby says in the foreground, patting Tony's head affectionately, and Giles can't help but imagine an entirely different cast of characters playing out this eerily familiar scenario. She turns to Giles and sighs.

"We got jumped in the parking lot by a group of hygiene-challenged vampires and their clearly insane – not to mention grabby – leader. And oh, I think she knows Buffy, because once she was done with all the stars and riddles exposition she said that if Buffy wanted the insider info on some big conspiracy, she had to find… someone… and bring him to her – maybe for a snack, maybe for hinky vampire love, I blanked out on that part on account of having a cold dead hand creeping up my shirt and – "

She shivers. "New topic! Um. Sorry if I freaked you out before, with the banging and whatever, but Ziva dropped her burglary kit during the fight and I didn't really want to bust down the door with my steel-toe. I don't cope well with people trying to hurt my friends. It's a character flaw."

Over the years, Giles has become adept at picking out the key information in any conversation, no matter the ratio of useful points to general random speech. One wouldn't be able to decipher Willow's speeches (or for that matter, the oft-tiresome natter of multiple teenage girls) otherwise.

Sometimes, it leads him to conclusions that he would actually rather not draw, such as the intimate details of the sex lives of his various charges, or the finer points of the plot of any of the High School Musical 'films'. Any reference to the latter makes him wonder if Sweet is still terrorizing the earth with his questionable means of lightening the mood, though no power on this earth would bring him to share that particular story with the current crop of slayers.

True insanity is not a common trait in vampires, for the most part, though plenty of them tend toward a certain unhinging of the mind. The precarious nature of mental impairment tends to make humans afflicted by it strictly 'drain and drop', as he heard Spike say once during the Glory days. In fact, there is only one vampire they have ever encountered that –

"Mr Giles?"

"No harm done," he says when he realises that Abby is waiting for some kind of response. "Would anybody care for tea?"

Agent Gibbs speaks up for the first time since they entered. "Got any bourbon?"

"Jethro, while I make no attempts at judging your methods of unwinding – "

"Sounds like you're about to, Duck," Gibbs replies wryly, and Ducky cuts himself off with a good-natured shake of his head. From the sofa, Tony snorts without tearing his eyes from what appears to be a rerun of Airwolf.

"No basement here, Boss-man. Looks like you're stranded up a certain creek without even a boat. Now shh, my little pixies, this is the best part!"

"Having a broken nose won't stop me from slapping your head, DiNozzo," Gibbs threatens without any real menace, rolling his eyes. "Ziver?"

"In the cabinet on your left, Gibbs," she answers from within the kitchen, ending her call and nodding at Giles. "Buffy and McGee should be here any minute. There was some mention of car trouble."

"Car trouble," Tony scoffs, his attention properly diverted from the explosions on the television. "Lame. I used t' use that excuse back in the day when I'd broken curfew. Couldn't get the car to start, Pop, got caught up checking out the problem from the comfort of the backseat – " His eyes widen comically at a point just beyond Giles' right shoulder.

"Finish that sentence and die, DiNozzo," Buffy says threateningly, winking at Giles as she passes – golden and mostly unhurt and _home_ – and retrieves a bottle from the aforementioned cabinet, tossing it to Gibbs. Abby flings herself at Agent McGee without a word, clinging to him like a pigtailed spider-monkey before drawing back and poking him in the chest reprovingly.

Giles braces himself for the inevitable angry 'you made me worry myself sick' tirade, recognizing certain familiar signs, but she only glares at the wayward agent and then dives back in. With an even tighter grip, if the sudden bulge of McGee's eyes is any indication.

"What, no hug for me?" Buffy asks teasingly, and Abby whirls on her.

"You almost got us killed!" she says, shrugging off McGee's warning hand. She frowns, a thought occurring. "Though I guess we did ask for it, with all of the pestering you about going on patrol and such. But Tony has a broken nose, _again_, and McGee got groped by an unhinged Wednesday Addams impersonator – "

"Abby – "

" – even if it's the only action he's had in months, despite my offers to fix him up with the polygraph tech who keeps eye-sexing him in the cafeteria – "

McGee blushes alarmingly. "Abby!"

"Abigail, might I suggest that you – "

" – and as for Ziva; well she's on your payroll, so I suppose she knew what she was getting herself into, but still, did you catch the part about almost dying?"

"Okay," Buffy says with a sigh, and Giles isn't the only one who stops short and stares at her with something akin to disbelief. Ziva looks as though she's waiting tensely for someone to throw the first punch, and Tony's grin fades as though he's just been told that due to the current decline in natural energy stockpiles the government has decided to requisition all existing copies of the James Bond movie franchise and burn them for fuel.

"That's it? Okay?"

"What, you want an apology? Fine. I'm sorry that Drusilla decided to crash the party, and even sorrier that once again, a demon decided to use one of my friends to pass along a message. What, they can't just text me like any other normal person, maybe put a note in a bottle and sail it into the Navy Yard? Dear Buffy, blah blah blah cryptic message of impending doom and world endage. Sincerely, Big Bad of the Week."

Silence falls.

"World endage?" Ducky asks curiously.

Buffy shrugs. "I might have been exaggerating. This time."

She studies Abby, eyeing her as one would eye an angry bull straining at a gate, and Giles can't help but be impressed by her restraint. Not long ago, she would have snapped back in response to Abby's tirade with the brittle tone that has been too-often present in her voice since Dawn died. Now she just seems… well, perhaps not strictly apologetic as such, but observant enough to realise that Abby's ranting is fuelled by fear and shock rather than real anger. More importantly, she was able to defuse it.

Abby looks down at her feet. "Sorry."

"Right. Kiss and make up. Because nothing says I'm sorry like a good long tongue-kiss," Tony pipes up, and Abby narrows her eyes at him.

"You're not going to fool me with that one like Gibbs fooled Ziva." Tony flinches and steals a look at the aforementioned ICWS agent as Abby continues. "If you weren't high as a kite right now, Tony, I swear I'd…"

"Wait," Ziva interrupts, moving out from behind the breakfast bar and advancing on Tony dangerously. McGee snorts and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like 'now you're in for it'. "What exactly does Abby mean, 'like Gibbs fooled Ziva'?"

Ziva David seems more like a slayer in that moment than ever, and Giles can't help but marvel at the similarities. Cat-like movement, deadly gaze and a certain air of menace that would make a vampire quiver in its stolen shoes.

Tony cringes. "I, uh… well, remember that time when we were fighting over paperwork, back in your first year on the team, and Gibbs told us to… and… uh, you kinda caught me by surprise with the whole… hey, did you not hear the part about it being Gibbs' fault? Go assault _him _with your Vulcan death stare!"

"Gibbs?" Ziva asks, shifting her weight enough so that they get a good view of the knife at her waist, though Giles is under no illusion that she would ever use it on a member of her former team.

"Didn't expect you to actually kiss him," Gibbs says casually with a shrug. "Not like you hadn't done it before, anyway."

"We were undercover!" Tony and Ziva protest in tandem, then share a glance that makes Giles suppress a laugh.

"How much do you want to bet that Xander and Cordelia over there were doing the dirty in the janitor's closet at some point?" Buffy asks him quietly, hiding a grin behind her hand.

He considers it for a moment, studying the pair. "I'm not wagering," he replies dryly. "You have a clear insider advantage."

"Is _this_ why you have that rule about apologies being of the bad?" Buffy asks Gibbs in a normal voice, a mischievous glint in her eye. Gibbs shakes his head.

"Nope. This is why I have Rule Twelve."

Giles wonders idly why the tips of McGee's ears turn red at that statement, and is even more surprised when Buffy coughs slightly awkwardly beside him. Deciding that his glasses will not stand the inevitable cleaning that may result from asking for details, he looks around the room at the assembled agents and sundry personnel and decides that a diversion from the current topic of conversation is sorely needed.

"Would anybody care for a scone?"

* * *

**Coming up in Chapter 23:** The fallout from the Buffy/McGee moment starts to gather momentum, and Tony and Ziva work out some of their issues. Meanwhile, Vance is about to get a pointed reminder of how small the supernatural world really is. People tend to talk, especially when Buffy starts breaking bones...

Reviews are much appreciated, as always. :)


	23. Do Slayers Dream of Vampire Sheep?

**A/N**: Apologies for the delay. 2010 marks a remission, a new start, and the return of the muse (albeit slowly and sporadically). Thanks to all those who have reviewed/left good wishes etc, and thanks in advance to those of you who intend to review in the future ;).

Hope you enjoy!

* * *

"Thank you, Buffy, for your gracious invitation, and for a very, well, _interesting_ evening," Ducky says, lifting his overcoat and hat from the breakfast bar. "And if you would be so kind as to tell Ziva that she is always welcome to drop by the morgue for tea and one of our usual chats, if she so desires – "

"Will do, Dr Mallard," Buffy replies with a smile, prompting the medical examiner to make a rather familiar clucking sound with his tongue at her use of his full name. She can almost feel Giles' rueful grin from behind her. "Do they clone you guys at some secret facility run by Merchant Ivory or something?"

"Pardon?"

Giles snorts and steps forward into Buffy's line of sight. "If that were true, I believe Ducky would have worn a hole in his spectacles by now, given Agent DiNozzo's penchant for broadcasting his every thought."

"So you _do_ clean your glasses to avoid seeing what we're doing!" Buffy says triumphantly, her smile inadvertently becoming an out-and-out grin at Giles' good-natured eye roll.

"Where is Tony, anyway?" Abby asks, her question directed pointedly to the room rather than at the one person who would most likely know the answer. She hasn't looked at – or spoken directly to – Buffy since shortly after her tirade earlier, apology or no. It bothers Buffy more than she'd like, but now is _so_ not the time to have that conversation.

"Bedroom," Gibbs answers dryly from the door, and Abby grins.

"Way to circumvent Rule 12," she says cheekily, and now it's McGee's turn to roll his eyes.

"Please. I want to sleep without nightmares tonight."

"I heard that, McDirty," Tony calls from down the hall, appearing in the doorway to Ziva's room with a loose-lipped smirk that looks ghastly given the blossoming bruises under his eyes. "What, you disappointed I didn't take you up on the oh-so-tempting offer to crash on your cheap lumpy couch?"

"Oh, completely, but I'll survive somehow," McGee says with an eye roll to rival Giles'. Ziva says something indistinguishable and Tony disappears through the doorway unsteadily. "And my couch is not cheap _or_ lumpy. C'mon, Abbs, I'll drive you home." He shoots a quick shy smile at Buffy as Abby shrugs on her blood-red coat and fumbles with the skull-shaped buttons adorning the front. "See you in the morning?"

"Barring fire, flood or plague of demon locusts," she answers, then frowns and taps the wooden back of the nearest chair. One lot of nasty flying demons per decade is enough, and besides… they're fresh out of gas for the flamethrowers.

Gibbs opens his mouth.

"Probably better not to ask," Giles advises.

"Wasn't gonna," Gibbs says immediately. "Summers, I'll expect your report from the Paxton murder on my desk at 0700. Tell DiNozzo I don't want to see him in the bullpen tomorrow. Face like that, he'll scare the filing clerks."

"Already printed, in your tray, and just waiting for your autograph, Boss," Buffy says as he pulls the door open and steps into the hall. Off his and Giles' surprised look, she shrugs innocently. "What? A girl can't hand in a homework assignment before the deadline?"

"Principal Snyder would no doubt roll over in his grave," Giles says under his breath, then winces at the playful impact of a super-strong fist to his upper arm.

"Wonder who got the job of picking him out from the Mayorsnake-mince?" Buffy wonders out loud, almost laughing at the look that McGee flashes at her over his shoulder. "Wait. I don't think I wanna know."

"I do not think any of us want to know," Ziva says, joining her in the doorway and offering her goodbyes to the remainder of the NCIS team before disappearing again as soon as the elevator doors slide shut. "I will be out in a little while for the post-patrol debriefing," she offers just before closing her bedroom door. It opens again almost immediately. "As long as I do not have to hear the story of how a full-grown man ended up inside a… Mayor snake."

"Definitely a 'don't ask, don't tell' moment, Zi. Take your time. Use protection!" Buffy says with a wink that's answered with a slam of the door. "Wow, was that a deja-vu-esque display of teenage hysteria or what?"

_Oh_.

"Buffy – " Giles starts, looking at her closely.

"Any scones left?" Buffy interrupts quickly, ducking away from Giles' gaze and heading for the kitchen. "I could happily slay a tray of English pastries right about now, calories be damned."

It's an effort not to choke on crumbs that seem to turn to dust in her mouth.

* * *

It's been an hour or so since the team left, and during that time she's successfully managed to shake off Giles' 'let's talk about it' face by pleading hunger, then shower, then the need for some fresh air. The cold breeze makes Buffy thankful for Ziva's advice on appropriate Washington outerwear, the wholly un-stylish but practical jacket doing a decent job of warding off the outside chill.

Her skin prickles inside the heavy double-layered fleece as she watches the moon peek out from behind heavy clouds and wonders suddenly where Oz is. Last they heard, he'd been heading back to Tibet with Jordy to teach the next generation of wolves how to control the change.

She could really use a bit of monosyllabic conversation right now.

Buffy doesn't bother to turn or start at the sound of the balcony door sliding open, recognizing the sound of familiar footsteps on the tiles, the familiar shape moving in the dim shadows of the lights on the street below.

"Tony asleep?" she asks quietly, keeping her eyes on the skyline beyond them as Ziva slips into the chair beside her with a soft sigh.

"Out like a lamp. He is not good with painkillers," Ziva replies matter-of-factly, something in her tone making Buffy simultaneously cringe and grin. She shifts the chair so that she's facing Buffy, one dark eyebrow quirked in an unmistakeable question. It's the kind of look that Willow used to give her just before demanding that she spill all the sordid details of a date with Riley.

Somehow Buffy doubts that Ziva is about to pull out a block of chocolate and giggle like a naughty teenager swiping tequila from her parent's liquor cabinet at the promise of secret girl talk.

"I'm immune to your ninja interrogation techniques, so you might as well quit it with the staring," Buffy says lightly, refusing to bite.

"Very well," Ziva says with a shrug. "I will just have to ask McGee. He will spill his guts faster than the Paladri demon we encountered last week."

"Really hoping you don't mean that in the literal sense, because eww," Buffy counters quickly, wrinkling her nose at the memory of the blue-skinned demon cowering before Ziva's gleaming knife. "Do we have to have another chat about excessive force? It kinda makes my head hurt channelling Responsible Buffy, and she obviously left the building when I decided to let Team Federal Agent tag along on patrol tonight."

Ziva looks at her for a long moment, her gaze unreadable. "What happened tonight was not your fault," she says quietly. "They do not blame you."

"Funny, 'cos Abby definitely seemed to be channelling her inner finger-pointer."

_Way to fail miserably at being flippant, Buffy_, she admonishes herself as soon as the words are out, falling from her mouth like birds shot out of mid-air. Vineyards and angry eyes and 'you can't stay here' dance among the shadows, making her blink hard and shake her head slightly to clear her vision.

Ziva sighs fondly, rubbing at a smear of vampire dust on the back of her hand. "Abby is… well, Abby. She does not deal well when people she loves are threatened by humans, let alone slightly insane vampiresses."

"Drusilla always did have the kind of timing that isn't," Buffy muses. "Which reminds me, I need to give Xander the heads up about the Spike-hunt. He's going to _love_ that assignment… almost as much as I love the idea of being Dru's matchmaker. Buffy Summers, provider of dating services for the lovelorn undead."

"You think that this Drusilla wishes for you to find Spike so that they can… date?"

Buffy sighs, running her hand through her loose tangled hair and wincing at the scrape of raw knuckles against the strands. "How about we don't go tripping inside Dru's head right now? Don't think I can handle any more crazy tonight." The question niggles nonetheless, but it's right up there with Xander's adventures in Oxnard and Giles' sex life in the 'no power on this earth' list.

They sit in silence for a long moment as the crash and clatter of dishes from inside the apartment tells Buffy that Giles is in full housewife mode, probably as an excuse to stay well away from anything that might involve his Slayer and a certain Federal Agent.

"McGee is a good friend," Ziva says simply, pulling her hair back into a ponytail and propping her sweatpant-clad legs up on the railing of the balcony.

Obviously, Ziva has no such qualms.

"If this is the part where you tell me that if I hurt him you'll beat me to death with a shovel – "

"It is not," Ziva interrupts. "Well, all right, perhaps it is, though I would most likely use far more… _inventive_… methods. Still, he is a good friend and a good agent, and not someone who does things lightly." Buffy opens her mouth to protest and Ziva raises a hand unthreateningly. "I am not saying that you are using him to fulfil your – how did Faith put it? – Double-H cravings, but…"

"Hey, still a non-fat yoghurt girl, no matter what Faith's been telling you. And remind me to be having words with a certain dark-haired Slayer when I see her next." Buffy chews on her lower lip briefly, suddenly awkward. What she wouldn't give for chocolate and giggles right now, and the realization that she misses Willow (just a little bit, and in a 'days gone by' kinda way) hits harder than a freight train at full speed. "We, uh, we didn't make with the horizontal mambo, if that's what you're trying not to ask."

Ziva shrugs casually and Buffy has to fight not to roll her eyes at how_ not_ immune she is to 'ninja interrogation techniques'. _Fish, barrel, gunshot._ Her skin prickles suddenly and she sits forward in the chair and stares into the darkness, eyes scanning the shadows for unusual movement. Tim's words ring in her ears.

"_There was someone watching us, someone who is – as Wednesday, uh, _**Drusilla**_, said – very good at hiding."_

"You see anything?" she asks Ziva quietly, because while she doesn't have the enhanced sense advantages that come with the Slayer package, Ziva has a pretty good instinct for knowing when she's being observed. _Comes with the life of observing others_, she'd said once during patrol, just before they got not-really jumped by a pair of unwitting fledglings. Ziva doesn't move a muscle, just shifts her gaze slightly and watches the tree line carefully.

"I do not," she says finally, frowning. "But that does not mean that there is nobody there."

"Noted," Buffy replies. "And welcome to the world of surveillance, supernatural style. Copping the perve from invisible beasties. Yay us?" Giles will probably go into giddy fits of ex-librarian frenzy at the possibility of research, if only because it will give his lenses a rest from the furious cleaning that he's been doing since Buffy and Tim came back to the apartment. "You'd think he'd have gotten the Buffy Has A Sex Drive memo sometime in the past, oh, I don't know, ten years."

Ziva just arches an eyebrow meaningfully, clearly not deterred by the segue. As much as Buffy wants to avoid skipping back to the previous topic, she's learnt her lesson about loose ends and unfinished conversations over the years.

"I'm not looking to scratch any itches with McGee, if that's what you're worried about," she offers. "And hey, if I wanted to – and I'm_ really_ not the type to quote 'Of Human Bondage' and leave him to wake up solo in the wet spot – I'm sure I could channel my inner Faith and pick up a more, uh, _temporary_ scratching post of sorts."

The unintended meaning of that hits a little too late, though if Ziva's snort is anything to judge by, it didn't go unnoticed. "I need friends who are more clueless about double entendres," Buffy adds with a sigh. "But all dirty aside, Tim isn't some notch on my super-sturdy bedpost. I don't… hey, ask Xander for the full rundown of Buffy's Dating Disasters, if you want. I just… I like Tim, and I'm pretty sure he likes me, and – just listen to me, any minute now I'll be asking you to pass him a secret love note like it's fifth grade. Ugh. But… he's also kinda terrified of Gibbs and those rules and I'm – "

"You are scared of Gibbs?"

It's not what Buffy meant, and they both know it, but Ziva's sly grin says she's giving Buffy a free pass on the sharing, if she wants to take it. Right then, she does.

"According to the rest of NCIS, I'm trembling before the mighty Boss-bear like a first-time camper. Realistically? There are way scarier things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in their philosophy." She grins at Ziva's look of surprise. "What, you think I didn't pay attention in sophomore English class?" Pauses. "Okay, so I got Wil…someone else… to take notes. Whatever."

Ziva opens her mouth, hesitates, then plows forward with an uncertain look that seems alien on her normally confident features. "It is not maligning anyone's memory to think of the times when things were good," she offers softly. "I am sure that Dawn would – "

"I'm beat," Buffy cuts in, standing with such force that the chair leaves angry-looking drag marks on the tile. "See you in the morning." She pushes through the sliding door without looking back – it isn't really fleeing if she doesn't_ exactly_ run – ignoring Giles' surprised look and unheard inquiry above the sudden roar in her head.

Turns out those free passes on the deep-and-meaningful chats have a shorter shelf life than she's entirely comfortable with.

Her bedroom is dark and warm – thank goodness for top-notch central heating – and the sound of snoring through the adjoining wall makes her grin, then hope (not for the first time) that Ziva isn't a screamer. If there ends up being anything to scream about.

Tim's face swims into view behind her closed eyelids, earnest and kind and a little reminiscent of early Xander with the hopeful slightly-smitten look that she's learned to recognise for what it is.

"_Someone who is very good at hiding."_

She's guessing that a trip through the ICWS archives – not to mention a trip down to Abby's lab, just in case Dru wasn't talking in strictly supernatural terms, and wow, won't that be all kinds of awkward – is on the to-do list for tomorrow.

Buffy counts more than 400 fence-jumping vampire sheep before sleep finally claims her.

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